>!THI    si- 


ONE    OF  THEM,  IN  HIS  HURRY  TO  BE   IN  THE  WORLD   WITH    US,    RAN    ABOUT  AS 
AS  SOON  AS  HIS  LEGS  PROTRUDED,  CARRYING  THE  BROKEN  SHELL  UPON  HIS  BACK." 


HOPKINS'S  POND 

AND 

OTHER  SKETCHES 


BY 

ROBERT  T.  MORRIS 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

27   WEST  TWENTY-THIRD   STREET  24   BEDFORD   STREET,   STRAND 

Ube  'fcnicfcerbocfcer  press 
1896 


COPYRIGHT,  1896 
BY 

ROBERT  T.  MORRIS 


•Cbc  ftnicfeerbocfeer  press,  Hew  yorfc 


DEDICATED   TO 
THE  MEMORY   OF   MY   BELOVED   FATHER 

LUZON  B.  MORRIS 

WHO   ENJOYED   EVERYTHING  THAT   HIS 
CHILDREN    ENJOYED 


PREFACE. 

WHEN  these  sketches  were  first 
published,  the  author  had  no 
more  thought  of  preserving  them  in  book 
form,  than  the  brown  thrush  thinks  of  re- 
cording the  things  that  he  says  to  his 
mate  from  the  bending  tip-top  of  a  white 
birch  in  June.  They  were  penned  in 
spare  moments  to  please  the  little  coterie 
of  friends  who  gather  about  my  open  fire- 
place in  the  long  winter  evenings,  where 
the  largest  bass  fails  to  escape  from  the 
hook,  and  where  the  bear  makes  his  most 
furious  onslaught.  There  was  a  pleasure 
also  in  fixing  certain  thoughts  in  definite 
form  so  that  when  fatigued  with  work  and 
with  city  surroundings  I  could  turn  to  an 
old  paper  and  find  that  I  really  had 
thought  of  nice  things  once. 

Then  again  there  was  a  feeling  that  the 


vi  Preface. 

pappus  of  the  pen  might  float  a  tiny  bit 
of  germ  to  some  barren  office  desk,  where 
it  would  spring  into  fresh  memories  for 
some  lover  of  richer  fields,  who  was 
chained  to  the  desk. 

Many  sketches  which  were  published 
anonymously  and  in  various  places  have 
been  trimmed  out  of  mind  by  the  sickle  of 
the  Reaper,  and  I  do  not  know  where  to 
look  for  them  to-day,  but  the  Editor  of 
Forest  and  Stream  has  found  in  his  files 
a  number  of  contributions  that  were  pub- 
lished over  my  name,  or  over  the  nom  de 
plume  of  Mark  West,  which  was  adopted 
from  the  familiar  call  of  New  England 
sea-shooters.  The  story  from  the  sandy 
end  of  a  Connecticut  township  was  pub- 
lished in  The  Rider  and  Driver. 


CONTENTS. 


HOPKINS'S  POND    ....  i 

BON  ASA  UMBELLUS,  REX  .  .  .  .17 
THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  EDDY  ...  40 
WATCHING  THE  BRANT  GROW  BIG  .  ,  53 
THE  LAIR  OF  SOMETHING  STRIPED  .  .  71 

SUCKER  DAYS 78 

THE  EVENING  OF  AUGUST  i,  1895  .  .  89 
IN  THE  SANDY  END  OF  A  CONNECTICUT 

TOWNSHIP  .  .  .  .'  .  .  105 
A  DAY  WITH  THE  GROUSE  .  .  .  .118 
THE  NEPIGON  AND  SAGUENAY  RIVERS  .  128 
THE  NUMBER  NINE  AS  A  TALE  VARNISHER,  141 
EN  KLAPJAGT  PAA  DANSKE  FJELDE  .  .151 
ONE  DEER  ....  .  176 

A  BIT  OF  GROUSE-HUNTER'S  LORE  .  .  185 
TROUT  IN  A  THUNDER-STORM  .  .  .199 


viii  Contents. 

PAGE 

COOT  SHOOTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND     .         .  204 

RUFFED  GROUSE  AMONG  THE  GRAPE-VINES  .  207 

WING  SHOOTING  VERSUS  GROUND  SHOOTING  212 
MY  WHITE  VIOLET — POETRY        .        .        .218 

AN  EASTER  CROCUS— POETRY      .        .        .  219 

THE  EMPTY  KENNEL — POETRY     .        .        .  220 

THE  OLD-SQUAW — POETRY    .        .        .        .  224 
WHAT    I    FOUND    IN    THE    HUNTING-COAT 

POCKET — POETRY  226 


HOPKINS'S  POND 
AND  OTHER  SKETCHES 


HOPKINS'S  POND. 

ECHO  hiding  up  among  the  rocks 
quietly  reproved  the  boy  who 
yelled  too  loudly  when  he  pulled  the 
croaking  bullhead  out  of  the  warm  pond 
water,  and  with  a  low,  forbearing  voice 
showed  with  nice  modulation  how  the 
sound  of  joy  ought  to  be  made  next  time. 
It  was  a  quiet  pond,  without  a  single 
bad  trait,  excepting  that  it  smelled  rather 
pondy  in  summer  when  the  water  was  low, 
but  that  is  nothing  to  a  boy.  Its  tran- 
quillity was  in  keeping  with  the  tranquil 
farms  that  extended  part  way  around  it, 
but  it  nevertheless  had  certain  subdued 
sounds  of  its  own,  for  in  the  spring  the 
honest  toad  sat  in  a  leaky  bog  and  trilled 
a  serenade  to  his  love  who  was  largely 
immersed  in  the  cool  water  below.  Little 
frogs  chuckled  and  big  frogs  rumbled  in 


2  Hopkins's  Pond. 

bass,  while  the  old  mill  wheel,  which  la- 
bored irregularly,  mingled  its  thumpings 
with  the  sound  of  water  plunging  over  the 
low  wooden  dam.  Such  sounds  were  very 
different,  though,  from  the  rattle  and 
bang  of  a  noisy  engine  and  the  screech  of 
a  steam  saw  that  one  is  in  danger  of  hear- 
ing nowadays  if  he  is  not  judicious  about 
his  selection  of  ponds.  We  never  heard 
anything  of  that  sort  about  old-fashioned 
Hopkins's  Pond,  which  was  very  dear  to 
the  heart  of  the  boy,  and  very  dreadful  in 
the  mind  of  his  mother,  who  imagined 

cv 

that  its  eager  depths  were  always  yawning 
for  her  dirty  little  darling,  who  had  safely 
outgrown  the  cistern  and  the  well. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  about  as  good 
a  pond  as  one  could  imagine,  though  it 
really  was  rather  deep,  down  by  the  flume 
where  the  water  silently  moved  under- 
ground in  a  slow,  portentous  current,  and 
the  sticks  and  rusty  bait  boxes  that  we 
boys  threw  in  there  disappeared  forever. 
If  such  things  went  as  completely  out  of 
sight  in  the  bonfire  in  the  garden  it  was 
a  different  matter.  When  the  agrostis 


Hopkins's  Pond.  3 

ghosts  and  dead  leaves  had  all  been  raked 
out  from  under  the  currant  bushes  and 
piled  upon  the  heap  of  trimmings  from 
the  grapevines  and  apple  trees,  a  cloud 
of  crackling  smoke  rolled  up  into  the 
balmy  spring  air  that  was  more  fitted  to 
receive  the  bluebird's  song,  and  into  the 
fire  we  threw  various  garden  rakings  :  a 
tail  from  a  wornout  buffalo-robe,  and  a 
heavy  dried  paint-pot,  a  chicken's  foot,  a 
recently  unearthed  spool  that  little  sister 
begged  us  to  spare  for  her  wagon,  a  piece 
of  bagging  with  plaster  on  it,  the  remnant 
of  a  hoop-skirt,  an  old  tow  chignon  that 
the  pup  had  dragged  over  from  the  minis- 
ter's yard,  a  sole  from  grandfather's  boot, 
the  wooden  cover  of  a  Webster's  spelling 
book,  a  cabbage  stalk  with  roots  deeply 
entwined  in  a  hunk  of  dirt,  a  mouldy  corn- 
cob, a  rusty  screw,  and  a  good  new  clothes- 
pin if  nobody  was  looking.  We  watched 
the  disappearance  of  these  things  in  the 
fire  with  great  glee,  and  there  was  none  of 
the  sober  feeling  that  came  over  us  when 
the  sticks  and  bait  boxes  went  out  of  sight 
in  the  flume. 


4  Hopkins's  Pond. 

A  large  part  of  the  pond  was  spread 
with  lilypads  which  shaded  the  reticulated 
pickerel,  and  round  about  the  margins 
amphibious  arrow-weeds  lifted  themselves 
up  high  enough  to  whisper  to  the  com- 
panionable willows  which  leaned  over  the 
water  as  far  as  they  dared,  and  which 
canopied  the  nest  of  the  wood-thrush  when 
she  pressed  her  warm  spotted  breast  over 
the  satin-lined  blue  eggs  that  held  hours 
and  hours  of  coming  song. 

Twittering  swallows  slid  in  graceful 
curves  over  the  surface  of  the  pond, 
dipped  their  bills  into  the  water  as  they 
flew,  circled  out  over  the  hayfield  and 
back  to  the  pond  again  as  lightly  as  mere 
allusive  emblems  of  flight.  Gaudy  oper- 
cled  sunfish  built  round  nests  in  the  yel- 
low sand  where  the  quawk  waded  with  his 
phosphorescent  breast  lantern  at  night, 
and  gauzy  winged  dragon-flies  no  heavier 
than  mid-day  air  balanced  upon  the  tip- 
piest  tips  of  the  sedges.  Archippus  and 
argynnis  butterflies  drifted  about  over  the 
clustered  asclepias  on  the  bank  and  the 
colias  fleet  luffed  on  the  half-dried  mud. 


Hopkins's  Pond.  5 

In  the  autumn  the  muskrats  built  cosy 
houses  of  calamus  and  cattail  at  the 
head  of  the  pond,  and  one  could  find  a 
raccoon  track  under  the  button  bushes  if 
he  knew  just  where  to  pull  the  branches 
aside  to  look  for  it.  Wood-ducks  floated 
among  fallen  leaves  in  the  shallow  cove 
where  sere  and  brown  grasses  hung  their 
loads  of  rich  nutritious  seeds  within  easy 
reach,  and  sometimes  a  black  duck  spent 
two  or  three  days  among  the  frost-killed 
weeds  on  the  low  islands  where  splashy 
waves  and  autumn  rains  had  made  good 
woodcock  ground  under  the  alders.  Katy- 
dids and  tree  crickets  katydided  in  the 
venerable  and  respected  maple  tree,  while 
the  disbanded  chorus  of  hylas  piped  with 
solitary  voices  in  the  woods  which  had 
been  littered  by  a  departing  season.  The 
old  rickety  bridge  lay  slanting  upon  its 
abutments.  Its  beams  had  been  obliged 
to  yield  a  little  in  the  spring  freshet  when 
the  ice  had  jammed  against  them.  The 
chestnut  planking  of  the  bridge  was 
warped,  and  where  horses'  feet  had  punc- 
tured the  rotting  boards  pine  slabs  were 


6  Hopkins's  Pond. 

nailed  as  a  provision  against  accident 
and  unwise  expenditure.  Hay  seed  that 
had  sifted  down  from  August  loads 
sprouted  in  the  dust  on  the  girders,  and  it 
rattled  down  into  the  water  when  we 
turned  up  a  plank  in  order  to  slyly  poke 
a  copper  wire  noose  in  front  of  the  un- 
suspicious white-nosed  suckers  as  they 
patiently  worked  from  rock  to  rock  along 
the  bottom  under  the  fancied  protection 
of  the  bridge. 

When  winter  came  over  the  pond  the 
hemlocks  sighed  very  often,  for  they  loved 
rivalry  with  other  trees  in  foliage,  and  the 
blue  jays  went  to  them  to  offer  sympathy. 
Green  and  blue  added  a  bright  bit  of  color 
to  the  white  landscape  and  pursuaded  the 
distant  winter  sky  to  come  nearer.  Soft- 
footed  rabbits  carelessly  left  whole  rows 
of  rabbit  tracks  in  the  snow  where  black- 
berry briers  offered  tempting  nipping,  and 
the  thick  rushes  were  as  full  of  quail 
tracks  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat.  In  the 
cold,  still  winter  midnight,  when  the  be- 
lated traveller  blew  his  frosted  finger-tips 
and  trudged  noiselessly  along  through  the 


Hopkins's  Pond.  7 

fluffy  snow  in  the  lonely  pond  road,  al- 
lowing superstition  to  keep  one  eye  on 
the  lookout,  the  muffled  quunk,  quunk, 
quunk,  of  uncaused  ice  sounds  suddenly 
admonished  him  to  take  longer  steps  and 
to  get  some  kind  of  a  door  behind  him. 

There  was  nothing  mysterious  about  the 
pond  in  the  daytime,  and  it  was  great  fun 
to  kick  a  stone  out  of  the  frozen  ground 
and  send  it  bounding  across  the  ice ;  to 
hear  the  musical  whunk,  whenk,  whink, 
ink,  inkle,  inkle,  inkle,  inkle,  until  the 
stone  bounced  into  the  bushes  on  the 
further  bank.  How  the  ice  did  ring  to 
the  clipping  skate  strokes  when  we  young- 
sters, red-mittened  and  with  flying  tippet 
ends,  played  shinny  in  the  moonlight  until 
the  driftwood  fire  burned  low  and  we  real- 
ized that  we  had  been  out  three  hours 
later  than  the  time  when  we  had  pro- 
mised to  be  at  home,  where  our  good 
parents  were  consoling  themselves  with 
the  thought  that  we  always  had  come 
home  previously.  No  matter  how  frosty 
the  night,  or  how  keenly  the  wind  blew, 
we  knew  nothing  of  that  while  the  fun 


8  Hopkins's  Pond. 

lasted,  but  it  began  to  feel  chilly  when 
Susie  had  chosen  to  go  home  with  Dave, 
and  it  became  shivery  when  Ed  had  been 
accepted  as  escort  for  Nellie.  Pretty 
brown-eyed  Nellie  with  warm  home- 
knitted  woollen  stockings  and  glowing 
cheeks,  her  mirthful  eyes  shining  out 
through  a  loosened  lock  of  dark  hair 
under  her  fur-lined  hood.  We  knew  that 
Ed  would  bashfully  steal  a  cold-nosed, 
hurried  kiss  at  the  gate,  and  that  Nellie 
would  hit  him  with  her  skates,  but  not 
very  hard — not  as  hard  as  we  would  have 
done  it.  We  knew  what  would  happen 
because  Ed  had  looked  sheepish  for  a 
whole  week  after  he  had  gone  home  with 
Nellie  the  last  time,  but  we  told  each 
other  that  we  did  n't  care  if  Nellie  did 
like  Ed  the  best.  We  did  n't  care  a 
darn  bit,  'cos  he  wa'n't  nobody  nohow. 
Could  n't  set  rabbit  twitch-ups,  nor  snare 
suckers,  nor  play  mibs  for  fair,  and  he  only 
knew  'rithmetic  and  school  things.  A 
feller  like  that  wa'n't  no  good  and  nobody 
'ceptin'  the  teacher  and  Nellie  liked  him. 
How  little  did  we  realize  in  those  early 


Hopkins's  Pond.  9 

days  that  there  was  something  green-eyed 
as  well  as  something  brown-eyed  out  for 
an  outing  when  the  weather  was  right ; 
but  boys  who  are  supposed  to  have  no 
troubles  at  all  are  all  full  of  them,  because 
they  have  the  emotions  of  older  folks  with- 
out the  training  to  discover  the  locality 
of  a  thorn.  Many  are  their  troubles  which 
make  a  lasting  impression  through  life. 

One  of  us  boys  was  so  enthusiastic 
about  trapping  muskrats  that  he  got  up  at 
four  o'clock  every  morning  all  through  the 
winter  and  tramped  miles  along  the  streams 
before  breakfast,  watching  the  habits  of 
the  warmer-coated  denizens  of  the  brook, 
hunting  for  their  holes  under  the  banks 
and  the  paths  where  they  came  up  into 
the  meadow  for  grass.  A  heap  of  unio 
shells  had  for  him  a  meaning.  A  burrow 
under  the  snow  to  a  certain  apple  tree 
showed  which  frozen  apples  the  muskrats 
liked  best.  A  soggy,  decayed  log  in  the 
water  always  carried  a  definite  evidence 
of  their  fondness  for  that  spot,  and  the 
boy  knew  that  his  trap  would  be  sprung 
and  the  sweet  apple  pulled  from  its  stick 


io  Hopkins's  Pond. 

when  he  went  to  that  log  in  the  morning. 
The  boy's  interest  and  labor  were  well  re- 
warded, and  he  caught  more  muskrats 
than  any  of  the-  other  boys  who  went  to 
their  traps  when  it  was  convenient  and 
who  did  not  set  them  in  very  good  places 
anyway.  It  was  a  matter  of  so  much 
pride  to  the  boy  to  be  successful  that 
he  told  all  of  the  other  boys  about  his 
luck,  and  expected  that  they  would  pat 
him  on  the  back  and  sing  his  praises  as  a 
famous  hunter ;  but,  ah  !  how  much  more 
had  he  learned  about  muskrats  than  about 
human  nature.  The  other  boys  simply 
would  not  believe  at  first  that  he  had  such 
luck  as  he  described,  but  he  made  them 
believe  it  by  taking  them  out  to  the  barn 
and  showing  them  the  skins  carefully 
stretched  upon  shingles  with  flat  tails  all 
in  a  row.  Did  that  end  the  difficulty  ? 
No  indeed  !  The  other  boys  straightway 
got  ugly  about  it  and  said  that  if  he  had 
such  luck  as  that  he  must  have  taken  the 
muskrats  out  of  their  traps,  and  they  told 
Nellie  and  Susie  what  they  thought  about 
it.  Nellie  and  Susie  responded  with  that 


Hopkins's  Pond.  n 

sympathy  which  is  the  sweetest  of  femi- 
nine characteristics,  and  promptly  sided 
with  the  injured  ones.  Such  was  the  boy's 
first  experience  in  competing  for  gains  ; 
but  in  later  life  he  found  that  whenever 
perseverance  and  work  made  him  suc- 
cessful over  others  who  were  less  inter- 
ested than  he  they  at  first  refused  to 
believe,  and  when  forced  to  believe  de- 
cided that  he  must  have  employed  unfair 
means. 

The  boy  was  very  much  grieved  at  the 
attitude  of  his  companions,  whose  esteem 
and  good-fellowship  were  more  to  him 
than  the  muskrat  skins  or  the  powder  and 
shot  that  they  would  buy.  The  problem 
at  one  time  seemed  to  end  at  nothing 
short  of  his  giving  up  the  profitable  trap- 
ping and  letting  the  other  boys  do  it  all  ; 
but  finally  he  hit  upon  the  plan  of  telling 
them  of  his  best  tricks,  and  showing  them 
the  good  trapping  places  that  he  had  dis- 
covered at  times  when  they  were  com- 
fortably snoozing  in  bed.  That  eased  the 
strained  relations  somewhat,  but  as  the 
best  luck,  unfortunately,  continued  to  pur- 


12  Hopkins's  Pond. 

sue  the  boy,  his  companions  persisted  in 
showing  their  disapproval.  Innocently 
looking  for  praise,  knowing  that  he  had 
earned  it,  there  was  not  only  no  praise 
forthcoming,  but  actual  antagonism. 

One  day  while  lying  upon  the  ground 
by  the  dam,  listening  to  the  roar  of  the 
water  and  thinking  of  the  ways  of  differ- 
ent animals,  like  a  flash  the  thought  came 
to  the  boy  that  this  antagonism  on  the 
part  of  the  other  fellows  was  just  simply 
one  of  the  habits  of  the  boy  animal.  All 
at  once  it  was  just  as  clear  to  him  as  were 
the  habits  of  the  woodchucks  and  of  the 
partridges,  and  he  remembered  that  the 
perspicuousness  of  their  leading  traits  had 
been  as  unexpectedly  revealed  to  him.  So 
firmly  did  this  thought  seize  the  boy  that 
he  did  not  go  home  to  dinner  or  to  sup- 
per, but  lay  there  in  the  grass  by  the  dam 
and  formulated  an  hypothesis  which  to  this 
day  has  made  him  happy  and  contented, 
even  though  successful  in  life.  That  hy- 
pothesis assumed  that  if  one  made  the 
habits  of  antagonists  a  matter  of  interest 
from  a  natural  history  standpoint,  there 


Hopkins's  Pond.  13 

would  be  no  necessity  for  defence  or  re- 
venge, and  all  of  the  energy  that  would 
otherwise  be  diverted  into  such  channels 
could  be  utilized  for  accomplishing  some- 
thing of  real  importance.  One  would 
expect  of  course  to  defend  principles,  but 
separately  from  self.  Under  the  hypothe- 
sis there  was  no  need  to  care  for  either 
praise  or  blame,  and  one  could  laugh  up 
his  sleeve  and  watch  unmerited  praise  and 
unwarranted  blame  striking  a  balance  with 
each  other  while  he  was  engaged  in  doing 
something  useful. 

The  more  disagreeable  a  person  was, 
the  more  interesting  he  became  as  a  speci- 
men, but  the  most  beautiful  feature  of  the 
hypothesis  was  the  ability  which  it  gave 
one  to  forgive  his  worst  enemies  for  any- 
thing at  any  time  and  to  find  that  insults 
could  neither  be  given  nor  received. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  muskrat 
crisis,  which  took  place  at  Hopkins's 
Pond,  the  boy  might  to  this  day  be  wast- 
ing energy  in  complicated  strife  instead  of 
enjoying  comfort  and  pleasure  while  work- 
ing for  himself  and  for  others.  The  boy 


H  Hopkins's  Pond. 

lives  a  long  way  from  the  pond  now,  and 
his  hair  is  grayer  than  it  was  in  muskrat 
days,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  when  visiting  the 
old  homestead  to  go  over  to  the  pond  and 
hunt  for  the  heaps  of  unio  shells  and  the 
burrows  under  the  bank,  Ed  and  Nellie 
are  married  and  have  sons  and  daughters 
of  their  own,  and  he  as  a  man  of  wide  re- 
nown has  proven  that  fraudulent  estimates 
were  furnished  to  us  boys  by  the  green- 
eyed  dealer  in  the  game  of  life.  Dave  and 
Susie  drifted  away  from  each  other  when 
Dave  went  off  to  college,  and  while  his 
tastes  were  ascending,  hers  remained  sta- 
tionary, so  that  after  a  few  years  they  were 
not  companions  for  each  other  at  all.  She 
as  a  household  drudge  is  very  different 
from  the  happy  Susie  whose  skates  rang 
merrily  with  ours  on  the  black  ice  under 
the  winter  stars.  Joe  and  Pete,  who  failed 
to  do  much  with  the  muskrats  and  who 
were  ugly  about  it,  have  failed  to  get  up 
early  in  any  of  their  undertakings,  and 
they  often  go  for  aid  to  the  boy  who  tried 
to  show  them  how  to  succeed  in  former 
days,  but  it  is  of  no  use.  They  still  grum- 


Hopkins's  Pond.  15 

ble  and  complain  of  their  lot,  and  are  ever 
ready  to  impugn  the  motives  and  the 
methods  of  any  man  who  is  prosperous. 
Jerry,  who  was  about  the  dullest  boy  in 
school,  went  West,  and  has  made  a  for- 
tune in  railroads,  so  that  it  seems  as  though 
almost  anybody  could  do  that  ;  but  Henry, 
who  was  one  of  the  very  best  scholars,  is 
an  extremely  respectable  clerk  in  Jerry's 
employ,  and  he  has  never  as  yet  perceived 
opportunity  standing  out  in  as  bold  relief 
as  a  fly  in  the  milk.  Tom  was  drowned 
at  sea,  and  no  one  seems  to  know  what 
has  become  of  George.  Everything  has 
changed  excepting  Hopkins's  Pond,  but 
to-day  the  water  pours  over  the  dam  as 
of  old,  and  the  cricket's  sharp  chirp  finds 
its  way  through  the  duller  sound.  The 
muskrat  makes  a  rippling  wake  in  the 
moonlight,  but  I  do  not  know  whose  boy 
eagerly  marks  its  course  now.  Pickerel 
still  suspend  themselves  under  the  lily- 
pads,  and  a  bullhead  will  pull  any  one's 
cork  'way  down  under  water  on  almost  any 
warm,  misty  evening.  The  pond  that  once 
entered  so  much  into  the  boys'  life  is  now 


16  Hopkins's  Pond. 

entering  into  the  lives  of  a  new  genera- 
tion of  boys. 

One  day  recently  Echo,  up  among  the 
rocks,  was  heard  protesting  more  loudly 
than  ever  before,  and  soon  a  coaching 
party  of  sightseers  with  four  bang-tailed 
horses  and  a  brazen  horn  came  rolling 
along  the  road.  One  of  the  ladies  touched 
a  gentleman  on  the  arm  and  said,  "There 
is  a  pond."  The  gentleman  answered, 
"Yes."  And  the  coach  rolled  on. 

That  was  all  that  it  meant  to  them,  for 
they  were  sightseers. 


BONASA  UMBELLUS,  REX. 

KING  by  courtesy  of  all  game  birds 
and  subject  to  no  authority  what- 
soever is  the  proud  ruffed  grouse  of  our 
North  American  forest. 

Named  by  Linnaeus  after  the  wild  ox, 
bonasus,  for  his  roaring,  and  specified  as 
umbellus  because  of  the  arrangement  of 
neck  ornaments,  he  has  received  down 
through  cyclefuls  of  generations  a  strength 
and  beauty  undegenerate.  From  the  pines 
and  hemlocks  of  the  ravine  he  inhales  the 
spirit  and  the  energy  of  his  moods.  The 
wintergreens  and  birches  furnishing  pro- 
vender, give  spicy  life  to  his  nerves  and 
muscles.  From  the  crags  he  adopts  the 
suggestion  of  ruggedness,  and  from  the 
winter  gale  cons  music  for  his  symphony 
by  wings.  The  crash  of  the  falling  dead 
tree  involves  an  idea  of  death,  and  by  op- 

17 


1 8         Bonasa  Umbcllus,  Rex. 

posites  he  rushes  upward  with  startling 
roar  to  liberty  and  life  when  found  by  the 
hunter. 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GROUSE  FAMILY. 

Through  a  small  south-facing  valley  in 
western  New  York  there  runs  a  spring 
trout  brook.  Several  years  ago  the  chop- 
pers cleared  off  the  arm  of  woodland  that 
extended  from  the  main  forest  up  along 
the  stream,  and  then  the  swale  was  quite 
barren  except  for  the  crooked  alders  that 
had  not  been  worth  cutting,  and  for  the 
fire-weeds  that  always  come  to  the  tempo- 
rary assistance  of  newly  cleared  land. 

Gradually  the  sheep  and  cattle  began 
to  find  pasturage  there,  and  two  or  three 
years  later  clumps  of  beech  and  poplar 
saplings  sprang  up.  Patches  of  briers  then 
crowded  out  the  sparse  grass,  and  here 
and  there  a  thrifty  green  hemlock  arose 
near  the  stump  of  its  deposed  ancestor, 
so  that  the  barren  ground  that  had  be- 
come pasture  land  was  transformed  into  a 
brush  lot. 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.          19 

One  Sunday  morning  in  May  the  sun 
shone  warmly  in  upon  the  budding  sap- 
lings of  the  swale.  The  naiads  of  the 
brook  murmured  with  hushed  voices  and 
the  trailing  arbutus  which  overhung  the 
bank  gave  out  a  rarer  fragrance  than  it 
would  have  done  on  any  rude  week  day. 
Hardly  a  sound  was  heard  save  the 
wandering  tones  of  the  church  bell  in  the 
far-off  village,  and  the  only  appreciable 
motion  of  the  air  was  in  the  gentle  breaths 
that  rise  almost  imperceptibly  from  the 
warming  soil  of  quiet  glades. 

With  almost  noiseless  footsteps  a  de- 
mure hen  grouse  walked  from  the  edge  of 
the  thick  moist  woods  and  stopped  for  a 
moment  a  little  way  out  in  the  brush  lot. 
Again  she  went  on  and  again  paused, 
looked  about  her  and  listened,  with  one 
foot  daintily  lifted  from  the  ground. 
Thus  by  degrees  she  advanced  out  among 
the  saplings,  her  head  gracefully  moving 
back  and  forth  in  unison  with  her  foot- 
steps and  the  pretty  brown  neck  feathers 
gliding  so  softly  over  each  other  that  they 
seemed  like  one  warp  and  woof  of  silk. 


so         Bonasa  Umbel  1  us,  Rex. 

Stepping  upon  the  gnarled  root  of  a  rough 
lichen-covered  stump  she  glanced  over 
her  own  smooth  outlines  and  the  bright 
hazel  eye  looked  the  satisfaction  of  the 
comparison,  but  yet  she  could  not  resist 
the  feminine  impulse  to  rearrange  several 
feathers  that  were  already  perfectly  in 
place. 

All  at  once  she  gave  a  start,  and  with 
upstretched  neck  and  elevated  crest  as- 
sumed an  attitude  of  strictest  attention, 
for  from  a  distant  point  in  the  forest  there 
had  come  to  her  ears  a  low  sound  like 
muffled  drum-beats,  the  strokes  first  slow, 
then  faster,  and  ending  finally  in  a  long 
tattoo. 

Poised  upon  the  root  with  partly  opened 
wings,  she  seemed  almost  ready  to  fly  in 
the  direction  from  which  the  sound  came, 
but  suddenly  remembering  herself,  the 
wings  were  closed  again  and  her  head 
dropped  bashfully  until  the  echoless  drum- 
beat once  more  sounded  through  the 
woods.  It  was  the  love  call  of  Old  Iron- 
sides, a  noble  cock  grouse  that  we  had  so 
named  because  of  his  seeming  impenetra- 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         21 

bility  to  the  shot  that  had  been  fired  at 
him  time  and  again  in  the  lower  ravine 
where  he  chose  to  spend  most  of  his 
time.  Day  after  day  the  hen  grouse  had 
listened  for  that  call,  knowing  that  Old 
Ironsides  would  come  in  the  spring-time 
to  find  her.  And  now  should  she  fly 
impetuously  to  him  and  let  him  know  her 
impatience  at  his  delay  ?  Oh,  no  !  The 
annals  of  feminine  nature  contain  no  his- 
tory of  such  rash  action,  so  taking  an 
easy  running  jump  into  the  air  she  flew 
very  quietly  among  the  trunks  of  the  big 
trees  of  the  woods,  and  then  on  curving 
wings  sailed  slowly  near  the  ground  to  a 
point  somewhere  in  his  vicinity,  and 
alighting,  waited  for  further  summons. 
The  roll  call  sounded  again,  and  she  the 
only  musterer  walked  half  hesitatingly  in 
the  direction  from  which  it  came,  sliding 
quietly  as  a  mouse  behind  boulders  and 
thick  kalmia  bushes,  and  looking  as  un- 
concerned as  you  please. 

At  last  he  was  in  sight.  High  upon 
the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  huge  storm-riven 
pine  he  was  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  with 


22         Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex. 

martial  bearing,  his  proud  crest  raised,  his 
broad  tail  partially  spread,  and  all  his 
feathers  glinting  in  the  lights  of  the 
woods. 

The  hen  grouse  was  not  many  rods 
away,  gliding  stealthily  from  one  hiding 
place  to  another,  hoping  that  he  would 
discover  her  and  yet  not  daring  to  lose 
any  of  her  reserve.  How  she  did  want 
to  pull  his  black  ruffs  though,  and  strike 
him  petulantly  with  her  bill  and  pretend 
to  be  real  angry  at  him  for  rough  play ! 

For  a  moment  Old  Ironsides  stopped 
his  incessant  pacing,  glanced  into  the 
thicket  on  one  side  and  on  the  other,  and 
then  his  sturdy  wings  were  struck  repeat- 
edly against  his  sides,  sending  forth  the 
long  vibrations  of  a  tone  so  low  that  it 
seemed  to  roll  along  the  ground  rather 
than  penetrate  the  upper  air,  but  with 
such  initial  velocity,  nevertheless,  that  it 
rolled  half  a  mile  out  of  the  woods  before 
losing  itself  in  the  grassy  fields.  How 
grand  the  old  warrior  looked  to  the  hen 
grouse.  But  what  if  he  should  become 
impatient  and  fly  elsewhere  to  seek  her 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         23 

and  not  return  for  a  long  week  ?  No  one 
will  ever  know  whether  she  purposely 
stepped  upon  the  small  dead  stick  that 
snapped  and  revealed  her  presence  just 
then,  but  who  is  prepared  to  deny  a  motive 
for  the  seemingly  accidental  movement 
of  a  dumb  animal  on  such  an  occasion. 

She'was  discovered  and  he  was  by  her 
side.  Coyly  she  stepped  away  from  him, 
and  then  to  gain  further  admiration, 
which  was  all  unnecessary,  he  spread  his 
great  barred  tail  widely  over  his  back,  un- 
folded the  iridescent  black  ruffs  until  they 
concealed  his  shoulders,  dropped  his 
curved  wing-tips  to  the  ground,  elevated 
his  pointed  crest,  and  with  curved  neck  cir- 
cled and  pirouetted  about  her,  nodding 
his  head,  fixing  his  strong,  bold  eye  upon 
her  modest  one,  and  stepping  in  front  of 
her  to  head  off  retreat,  in  such  an  exas- 
perating way  that  it  seemed  as  though  she 
certainly  would  scream. 

He  would  not  have  made  any  such  pre- 
tentious movements  if  other  cock  grouse 
had  been  about  to  criticise  him,  and  how 
the  other  hen  grouse  would  have  been 


24         Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex. 

amused  at  her  assumption  of  simplicity 
and  gentleness.  She  who  was  the  boldest 
of  all  when  associating  with  others  of  her 
own  sex,  and  who  could  roar  as  loudly 
with  her  wings  as  any  cock  grouse  when 
trying  to  unnerve  an  enemy. 

But  who  could  doubt  that  all  of  this 
display  on  his  part  meant  that  he  was 
assuring  her  that  he  would  be,  oh,  so  true 
and  loyal  forever  and  forever  ?  She  be- 
lieved in  him  most  sincerely,  and  loving 
and  respecting  tried  hard  to  avoid  being 
annoyed  at  his  overplus  of  attention. 

It  was  not  long  afterward,  however, 
that  he  acted  in  a  rather  independent 
manner  and  took  little  interest  in  family 
affairs,  so  that  when  in  June  there  was  a 
nest  of  ten  eggs  by  the  side  of  a  clematis- 
covered  stump  out  at  the  edge  of  the 
brush  lot,  Old  Ironsides  was  either  drum- 
ming again  in  another  woods  altogether, 
or  he  was  associating  with  two  or  three 
chummy  reprobates  of  his  own  sex  during 
the  livelong  day. 

The  hen  grouse  took  great  comfort 
with  her  eggs,  though.  Six  of  them  were. 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         25 

plain  buff-colored,  and  four  of  them  were 
marked  with  light-brown  spots,  and  all 
were  smooth  and  snug-fitting  in  the  nest. 
Around  about  the  nest  she  scratched  some 
dry,  loose  beech  leaves  which  could  be 
whisked  over  the  eggs  in  an  instant  with 
one  movement  of  her  wings  in  event  of 
surprise  by  a  marauder,  and  then,  being 
almost  of  the  color  of  dead  leaves  herself, 
she  could  hardly  be  seen  when  she  snug- 
gled cosily  down  over  the  eggs  and  drew 
her  head  in  closely.  It  seems  too  bad  to 
think  that  after  all  this  pains  the  mother 
bird  might  be  discovered  in  her  hiding 
place,  alone  and  unprotected  as  she  was. 
One  evening  a  red  fox  trotted  past,  and 
when  near  the  nest  he  stopped  and  sniffed 
the  air,  twisting  the  sharp  tip  of  his  nose 
from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  alternately 
spreading  and  closing  his  whiskers,  but  he 
could  not  quite  locate  the  gentle  prey, 
and  his  attention  was  finally  attracted 
elsewhere  by  a  little  squeaking  evening 
mouse  that  had  fallen  from  the  soft  cedar 
bark  nest  in  the  wild  grapevine  near  by. 
The  noiseless  swoop  of  a  great  ogre- 


26         Bonasa  Umbcllus,  Rex. 

eyed  horned-owl  gave  the  mother  grouse 
a  cruel  heart-thumping  one  moonlight 
night  just  as  she  had  almost  dared  to  take 
a  little  nap  ;  but  the  owl  had  dived  for  a 
gray  rabbit,  and  did  not  suspect  that  a 
grouse  was  within  easy  reach.  Why  it 
was  that  the  minks  and  skunks  and 
weasels  and  raccoons  and  box  turtles  and 
black  snakes  did  not  find  the  nest  is  a 
mystery ;  but  there  is  some  strange  pro- 
tection afforded  by  nature  for  ground- 
nesting  birds.  Perhaps  there  is  a  certain 
sense  of  honor  among  predaceous  animals. 
Hounds  are  disinclined  to  chase  a  nursing 
she-fox,  and  it  may  be  that  minks  know 
better  than  to  destroy  the  eggs  that  make 
the  golden  geese,  although  we  do  know 
that  they  are  sometimes  absent-minded  in 
their  morals.  The  only  enemy  that  found 
the  nest  after  all  was  a  farmer's  boy,  and 
he  did  it  quite  accidently  by  stepping  so 
near  the  old  bird  on  his  way  home  from 
the  trout  brook  that  she  was  forced  to  fly 
out.  The  boy's  first  impulse  was  to  leave 
the  eggs  undisturbed  except  for  the  turn- 
ing that  was  absolutely  necessary  for  an 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.          27 

accurate  count,  but  suddenly  remember- 
ing that  there  was  a  "  settin'  hen  "  under 
the  old  wagon  in  the  woodshed  at  home, 
he  smiled  a  salute  of  thanks  to  his  mem- 
ory, and  with  well-meaning  but  rather 
thick-fingered  caution  that  would  have 
made  most  of  us  a  little  nervous  if  they 
had  been  our  eggs,  he  rolled  up  two  of 
the  precious  oval  treasures  in  a  youthful 
fisherman's  Saturday  afternoon  handker- 
chief, and  tucking  them  carefully  away  in 
a  side  pocket  trudged  rather  unsteadily 
over  the  stones  as  his  mind  became  occu- 
pied with  the  thought  of  having  two  live 
grouse  at  home  that  would  respond  to  his 
kindly  efforts  to  tame  them.  At  intervals 
he  regretted  that  he  had  not  taken  two 
more  of  the  eggs  ;  but  his  conscience  was 
quieter  at  knowing  that  the  mother  bird 
could  bear  two  pangs  more  easily  than 
four  when  she  returned  to  the  nest  again. 
For  eighteen  long  days  the  mother 
grouse  had  been  sitting,  and  she  anxiously 
awaited  the  welcome  sound  of  a  little  one 
tapping  at  the  shell  for  release.  While 
she  had  been  waiting  the  blood-roots  and 


28         Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex. 

dog-tooth  violets  had  dropped  their  petals, 
the  white  cornel  flowers  had  turned  to  a 
feeble  fading  pink,  the  hepaticas  and 
anemones  become  dingy,  and  in  their 
places  the  azaleas  and  trilliums  came  out 
in  full  sponsal  array.  The  ferns,  which 
fought  their  way  through  the  resisting 
cold  ground  with  clenched  fists,  had  now 
unfolded  a  generous  wealth  of  fronds 
under  the  influence  of  a  spring-time  sun 
which  brought  harmony  for  all  nature  with 
its  presence. 

The  patient  bird  had  seen  the  hosts  of 
warblers  proceed  bush  by  bush  and  tree 
by  tree  from  the  southland  toward  the 
northland,  and  it  was  time  for  her  brood 
to  appear.  When  at  last  she  heard  a 
faint  tip-tapping  and  saw  a  movement 
through  a  long  crack  in  one  egg,  it  was 
not  long  before  the  gentle  aid  of  her 
bill  had  released  a  cunning  little  yellow 
and  brown  head.  Then  a  small  strug- 
gling wing  appeared,  and  out  tumbled  a 
dear,  downy  chick  of  a  grouse.  One  after 
another  the  eight  young  birds  escaped, 
and  one  of  them  in  his  hurry  to  be  in  the 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         29 

world  with  us  ran  around  as  soon  as  his 
legs  protruded ;  and  comical  enough  he 
looked  with  the  broken  shell  clinging  to 
his  back. 

At  about  this  time  the  old  Brahma 
hen  over  at  the  farmhouse  found  under 
her  feathers  two  chickens  that  were 
smaller  than  any  that  she  had  ever  seen 
before,  and  they  were  ahead  of  any  cal- 
culations that  she  may  have  made  as 
to  time  ;  but  she  felt  fully  responsible  for 
them,  nevertheless,  and  was  disturbed  be- 
cause they  ran  away  from  her  sheltering 
wings  and  only  returned  to  her  most  per- 
sistent clucking.  The  boy,  who  had  been 
attracted  by  the  solicitous  calls  of  the  hen, 
caught  one  of  the  agile  scampering  balls 
of  down  in  his  hand  and  held  it  up  to  ad- 
mire the  bright  eyes  and  tiny  bill  that  were 
thrust  through  between  his  fingers  ;  but  the 
little  feet  clutched  his  fingers  so  tightly, 
and  the  small  heart  throbbed  so  fast,  that 
in  pity  he  put  the  grouse  chicken  quickly 
down  by  the  old  Brahma  hen  again. 
What  transformation  a  little  warmth  had 
wrought  in  the  cold  senseless  yolk  and 


3o         Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex. 

white  of  the  egg  of  a  few  days  before, 
changing  it  into  a  beautiful  warm  little 
creature  endowed  with  hopes,  and  fears, 
and  longings,  and  knowing  its  friends 
from  its  enemies. 

But  what  strange  instinct  was  it  that 
kept  leading  these  two  babes  of  the  wood 
away  from  the  motherly  barnyard  hen  ? 
What  did  they  seek  so  persistently  ? 
Scarce  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  their 
escape  from  the  shell,  and  they  had  wan- 
dered out  of  hearing  of  the  good  foster 
mother  to  seek  a  wild  mother  who  would 
train  their  wild  little  natures  in  full  sym- 
pathy and  understanding.  Down  into 
the  garden  they  ran,  then  out  across  the 
lane  and  into  the  grass  in  the  meadow. 
Whither  they  were  going  they  knew  not, 
but  go  they  must.  They  were  hungry, 
but  there  was  no  mother  to  teach  them  to 
eat,  and  thirsty  without  knowing  what 
water  was.  All  day  long  they  ran  through 
the  grass  and  under  the  rail  fences — first 
brother  ahead,  then  sister — the  strange 
impulse  urging  their  tiny  pattering  feet 
ahead  as  fast  as  they  could  go.  It 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         31 

was  chilly  in  the  evening  and  their  soft 
down  was  all  wet  and  bedraggled  with 
dew,  and  when  it  became  too  dark  for 
them  to  see  the  way,  they  stopped  by  a 
sheltering  stone  and  snuggled  up  close  to 
each  other  with  plaintive  peeps  ;  but  they 
were  too  tired  to  sleep  and  every  now  and 
then  the  drooping  eyelids  opened  with  a 
start  and  the  chicks  pushed  closer  still  to 
each  other  and  lisped  their  longings  for  a 
mother's  warm  feathers.  On  the  follow- 
ing morning  they  could  not  run  nearly  so 
fast,  and  very  often  they  stumbled  and 
fell  over  the  sticks  and  weed  stalks  that 
seemed  to  them  to  offer  more  and  more 
opposition.  The  pretty  down  was  rough- 
ened so  that  it  stuck  together  every  which 
way,  and  all  forlorn  they  were  indeed.  If 
one  lagged  far  behind  or  chirped  patheti- 
cally when  caught  in  a  tangle  of  grass  the 
other  would  toddle  back  and  wait,  for 
even  such  mites  of  birds  felt  the  desire 
for  companionship  in  misery.  Every  few 
minutes  they  had  to  stop  and  rest,  and 
again  on  they  would  struggle,  but  with 
such  weak,  uncertain  steps  that  it  was 


32         Bonasa  Umbcllus,  Rex. 

evident  that  their  trifling  energies  were 
almost  expended  long  before  the  cold  dew 
had  again  soaked  and  chilled  them.  They 
were  not  so  very  far  from  the  brush  lot 
where  their  real  mother  was,  but  that  night 
when  the  two  tender  little  wanderers  tried 
to  comfort  each  other  there  was  not  a  bit 
of  warmth  for  them  to  exchange  and  they 
shivered  and  trembled  so  that  they  could 
not  have  kept  very  close  together  anyway. 
The  morning  sun  looked  down  upon  two 
wee  wet  grouse  babies  lying  side  by  side 
in  the  field.  Their  eyes  were  closed, 
their  yearnings  had  all  ceased,  and  no  one 
would  have  distinguished  them  from  the 
quartz  stones  of  the  field.  Such  a  short 
experience  with  life ! 

All  of  this  while  the  mother  grouse  was 
having  care  enough  with  her  brood  of 
eight,  even  if  two  were  missing.  They 
would  eat  nothing  but  insects,  and  it  kept 
the  old  bird  pretty  busy  scratching  over 
the  leaves  to  find  enough  for  them.  In 
one  corner  of  the  brush  lot  there  was  a 
large  red-ants'  nest,  and  there  the  chickens 
had  great  fun  when  they  had  grown  to 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         33 

be  nimble  of  foot.  The  mother  would 
scratch  away  a  part  of  the  loose  heap  of 
soil,  and  then  when  the  ants  bustled  out, 
some  devoted  to  angry  passions  and  others 
hurrying  to  carry  off  the  long  white  eggs 
that  had  been  exposed,  the  little  chickens 
became  so  expert  at  snapping  them  up 
that  in  the  conceit  born  of  successful  ex- 
perience they  even  chased  a  fly  in  the 
absurd  expectation  of  catching  it,  and 
the  fly  was  so  much  surprised  at  their 
assurance  that  it  allowed  itself  to  be 
caught,  for  such  is  often  the  relation  of 
ambition  to  seeming  impossibilities.  One 
needs  only  to  be  stupid  enough  to  obtain 
everything. 

The  young  birds  grew  rapidly  and  be- 
came experts  at  avoiding  their  natural 
enemies.  If  a  sharp-shinned  hawk  flew 
over,  the  mother  gave  a  warning  note, 
and  instantly  each  chick  dropped  so  flat 
against  the  ground  that  it  was  impossible 
for  the  very  best  eyes  to  see  one  of  them. 
When  the  farmer's  boy  again  had  occasion 
to  cross  the  brush  lot  the  hen  bird  had 
advised  the  chickens  to  hide  long  before 


34         Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex. 

he  came  near  them,  for  even  if  he  had 
not  cared  to  disturb  the  little  ones,  such  a 
boy  may  accidentally  tread  directly  upon 
angels  if  he  does  not  see  them,  and  to 
lead  him  away  the  mother  fluttered  and 
limped  along  the  ground,  pretending  to  be 
lame  and  unable  to  fly.  The  boy  knew 
well  this  trick  of  the  bird,  but  she  pre- 
tended to  be  so  really  in  distress  this  time 
that  he  floundered  after  her  through  the 
briers.  When  he  was  far  enough  away, 
however,  she  took  to  her  wings  as  usual, 
and  circled  by  a  long  route  back  to  the 
brood  again.  One  cluck  was  sufficient  to 
cause  the  ground  to  spring  into  life  about 
her,  and  the  chickens  were  all  safe. 

A  hooded  adder  that  was  sunning  him- 
self in  the  dry  sheep-path  one  day  sudden- 
ly awoke  and  found  a  chicken  quite  near 
him,  and  although  the  little  thing  was  too 
much  frightened  to  run  very  fast  it  never- 
theless got  out  of  the  dangerous  vicinity 
in  time,  and  the  adder  had  to  console  him- 
self with  a  fat  cricket.  What  luck  for  the 
chicken  that  it  was  a  slow  adder  instead 
of  a  black  racer,  for  the  latter  would  have 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         35 

followed  it  at  any  necessary  rate  of  speed, 
and  after  mesmerizing  it  by  the  cruel 
charming  of  cross  glides  and  super-am- 
bient head  and  fulgurating  tongue,  would 
finally  have  ended  the  vicious  play  by 
creeping  an  ugly  gullet  over  the  soft 
prey. 

There  was  one  enemy,  though,  that 
came  so  insidiously  that  the  mother  gave 
no  warning  note,  and  it  would  have  availed 
nothing  if  she  had  done  so.  A  great  harm- 
less blue  heron  had  just  sagged  along  over 
the  brook  in  awkward  flight,  when  from 
his  wake  came  a  winged  tick,  the  dreadful 
lipoptena,  buzzing  in  eccentric  lines  until 
he  espied  the  grouse.  With  devilish 
precision  of  aim  the  uncanny  harpy  of  a 
thing  struck  the  soft  feathers  of  her  back 
and  disappeared  among  them  with  an 
eerie  sidewise  glide.  The  very  thought 
of  harboring  such  a  parasite  was  enough 
to  make  the  grouse  shudder,  but  she 
feared  more  for  the  little  ones  than  for 
herself.  Follow  the  tick  as  she  would 
with  her  bill  when  a  wriggling  feather  dis- 
closed its  locality  she  could  not  find  the 


36         Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex. 

horrible  thing,  until  at  evening,  when  the 
chicks  were  gathered  about  her  it  huskily 
buzzed  from  her  breast.  She  caught  it 
quickly,  but  could  not  swallow  it  for  the 
tough  elastic  legs  had  encircled  the  edge 
of  her  bill,  nor  could  she  crush  it  because 
the  leathery  body  expanded  in  any  direc- 
tion when  she  brought  all  her  strength  to 
bear  upon  it.  Finally  the  foul  tick  in  the 
most  unconcerned  manner  deliberately 
crawled  from  her  bill  and  with  its  fiendish 
directness  struck  the  neck  of  one  of  the 
handsomest  of  the  brood  and  fastened  it- 
self there  firmly  in  the  intention  of  remain- 
ing in  spite  of  all  remonstrance.  On  the 
following  day  the  tick,  swelling  with  the 
life  blood  of  the  chicken,  discarded  its  wings 
as  an  evidence  of  determination  to  remain, 
and  a  few  days  later  it  gave  birth  to  a  single 
offspring,  full-winged  and  ready  for  attack. 
The  young  imp  fastened  itself  to  the 
chicken's  neck  close  by  its  parent,  and  no 
matter  how  hard  the  mother  grouse  pulled 
at  them  she  only  succeeded  in  stretching 
out  their  rubber-like  bodies  and  in  pulling 
her  little  chick  off  from  his  feet.  Day  by 


Bonasa  Umbellus,  Rex.         37 

day  the  poor  chick  grew  thinner  and 
scrawnier,  while  his  sturdy  brothers  and 
sisters  went  steadily  along  in  development, 
and  the  brood  would  soon  have  numbered 
only  seven  had  not  the  mother  bird  fortu- 
nately led  them  far  into  the  dank,  cool 
swamp  on  one  torrid  day,  where  much  to 
their  delight  was  found  a  patch  of  skunk 
cabbage  with  its  heavy  fruit.  How  the 
mother  did  enjoy  tearing  open  the  green 
fleshy  balls  for  the  seeds,  and  the  little 
fellows  feasted  upon  the  pulp  like  veritable 
gluttons,  not  knowing  that  at  the  same 
time  the  life  of  the  invalid  in  their  family 
was  to  be  saved.  The  pungent  aroma 
had  only  just  begun  to  circulate  through 
their  veins  when  the  young  tick  loosed  his 
death-like  grip  and  buzzed  from  one 
chicken  to  another,  trying  to  find  one  that 
was  agreeable,  but  they  were  all  alike  and 
so  it  sidled  up  to  a  passing  rabbit  and 
there  found  lodgment.  In  a  few  days  it 
had  discarded  its  wings  and  then  there 
was  no  danger  of  its  troubling  the  young 
grouse  again.  The  old  tick  had  tumbled 
off  overpowered  at  the  same  time  that  the 


38         Bonasa  Umbelles,  Rex. 

young  one  flew,  and  that  night  she  was 
picked  up  on  the  sticky  end  of  a  toad's 
long  tongue  and  successfully  swallowed. 
Glory  be  to  the  toad  ! 

In  July  the  chickens  began  to  feast  upon 
huckleberries,  and  when  the  August  black- 
berries were  ripe  they  ate  so  many  and 
grew  so  fast  that  it  soon  became  time  for 
them  to  throw  off  their  short  suits  of  soft 
brownish  chicken  feathers  and  to  take  on 
the  finer  colors  and  stout  quills  of  real 
grouse.  With  their  change  in  dress  came 
a  change  in  tastes,  so  that  they  no  longer 
cared  for  insects,  but  sought  instead  the 
ripened  seeds  and  berries  and  tender 
leaves,  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  the 
shooting  season  was  near  at  hand  and  that 
such  diet  was  making  them  perilously  fat 
and  luscious. 

As  their  wings  became  stronger  and 
their  tails  grew  longer,  pride  began  to  ap- 
pear in  different  members  of  the  family 
and  quarrels  were  frequent  among  the 
youngsters.  They  were  disobedient,  and 
stayed  away  from  home  at  night  when- 
ever it  pleased  them  to  do  so.  The  mother 


Bonasa  Umbelles,  Rex.         39 

grouse  was  not  much  disturbed  at  this  de- 
monstration of  independence,  for  she  knew 
that  she  had  raised  a  brood  of  the  wildest 
birds  of  the  forest,  and  now  in  September 
she  was  willing  to  leave  them  to  their  own 
resources,  satisfied  that  she  had  trained 
them  all  properly  in  ways  of  self-protec- 
tion. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE 
EDDY. 

GRAPEVINES  and  moonseeds  and 
Virginia  creepers  tangle  their 
branches  together  over  the  prostrate  form 
of  the  old  lichen-covered  mill.  The 
thump  and  rumble  of  the  soggy  wheel 
have  not  been  heard  in  the  quiet  little 
valley  for  many  a  year,  and  the  water 
splashes  over  the  drippy  alga-decked  shaft 
and  through  the  holes  in  the  dam,  throw- 
ing clouds  of  cooling  spray  into  the  warm 
sunshine. 

Collecting  its  scattered  forces  the 
stream  bounds  off  among  the  rocks, 
slides  under  the  ferns,  and  tarries  for  an 
eddy  at  the  bend  where  the  scraggy  hem- 
lock leans,  giving  the  flecks  of  foam  time 
to  circle  about  in  the  shade  before  they 
are  whirled  away  down  stream  again. 
4o 


The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy.      41 

Deeply  sunken  beneath  the  hemlock's 
gnarled  root  is  a  shelving  drift  boulder  of 
gneiss,  and  under  the  shelf  a  big  trout  has 
lived  for  many  seasons.  His  colors  are 
dark,  his  protruding  under-jaw  is  hooked, 
his  eye  is  fierce,  and  his  manner  is  aggres- 
sive. No  other  living  thing  of  his  size  or 
less  would  dare  claim  a  share  of  the  eddy. 
The  beautiful  despot  has  caught  every 
baby  trout  that  ventured  so  far  up  or 
down  stream  this  year,  and  rumor  has  it 
that  he  swallowed  one  of  his  best  children 
at  a  single  gulp.  The  timid  little  dace 
hide  behind  the  stones  in  shallow  water 
and  make  eyes  at  him,  but  one  by  one  he 
takes  them  to  his  bosom  and  shows  them 
the  folly  of  their  ways.  When  a  miller 
balances  on  the  tip  of  a  waving  fern  frond 
near  the  brink,  the  old  trout  throws  water 
at  it  with  his  tail  and  then  whirls  it  under, 
leaving  a  single  white  wing  to  float  off 
down  stream  and  make  the  other  trouts 
mouths  water.  That  shows  Ibis  disposi- 
tion. 

The  hemlock  has  stood  on  the  bank  for 
a  couple  of  centuries  and  the  trout  has 


42     The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy. 

lived  under  it  for  a  decade,  but  I  have  no 
dates  for  the  boulder  and  the  stream. 

When  the  winter  storm  fills  the 
branches  with  snow  and  cold  winds  moan 
as  they  roam  through  the  forest,  the  eddy 
is  covered  with  ice,  but  down  at  the  edge 
of  the  boulder  the  big  trout  tucks  the  dark 
water  snugly  about  him,  slowly  waves  his 
broad  tail  back  and  forth,  passes  an  oc- 
casional glassful  of  water  through  his  gills, 
and  cares  nothing  for  the  storm  and  the 
cold,  but  in  quiet  contemplation  looks  for- 
ward with  pleasure  to  the  sins  of  a  new 
season.  If  the  little  white-footed  mouse 
hops  trembling  across  the  ice,  the  trout  is 
sorry  he  cannot  take  her  down  into  his 
comfortable  home,  but  there  is  a  coldness 
between  the  trout  and  the  mouse  that  he 
loves,  and  little  does  the  mouse  suspect 
that  the  bump  which  she  felt  on  the  ice 
under  her  feet  was  made  by  the  nose  of 
one  that  would  fain  approach  nearer. 

When  the  birds  come  back  in  the  spring 
and  the  blue-bird,  nestling  in  the  sunny 
top  of  the  hemlock,  softly  carols  a  love 
song  about  Bermuda,  the  black  and  white 


The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy.      43 

warbler  breaks  the  brown  monotony  of 
the  rough  bark  as  he  glides  up,  down  and 
around  it,  and  the  aromatic  fragrance  of 
the  hemlock  mingles  with  the  gentler  odor 
of  red  maples  and  anemones  and  new 
moss,  the  trout  still  spends  his  days  near 
the  shelf  of  the  boulder  and  watches  for 
the  flies  that  the  phcebe  bird  misses. 
When  he  plunges  out  after  them  the  timid 
rabbit  hops  convulsively  backward  and 
opens  his  great  wondering  eyes  more 
widely  than  ever,  and  the  red  squirrel 
scurries  up  the  hemlock  trunk,  scolding 
and  jerking  his  tail  to  give  emphasis  to 
his  remarks ;  but  nothing  can  the  rabbit 
and  the  squirrel  see  except  a  few  circling 
ripples  chasing  each  other  ashore. 

When  the  summer  days  come,  the 
cicada  sounds  his  shrill  call  from  the  dead 
limb  overhead,  the  noise  of  clinking 
scythes  is  borne  from  the  hay-field  to  the 
woods,  and  the  hot  breath  of  the  brakes 
almost  smothers  the  asters  on  the  bank  as 
they  look  longingly  at  their  cool  reflec- 
tions in  the  brook.  The  surroundings 
have  changed,  but  the  trout  lies  deep 


44     The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy. 

down  in  his  favorite  place.  If  a  cow 
wades  into  the  eddy  for  a  drink  he  does 
not  care.  If  a  clap  of  thunder  makes  the 
ground  tremble,  he  is  only  a  little  bit  un- 
easy ;  but  there  is  one  sound  that  puts 
him  on  the  alert  for  danger.  He  does 
not  often  hear  a  fisherman's  step,  it  is 
true,  but  he  associates  a  few  startling 
events  with  that  sound.  The  stony  New 
England  soil  cannot  compete  with  the 
fertile  Western  lands  ;  the  farmers'  boys 
have  gone  off  to  the  cities,  and  the  few 
elderly  people  who  remain  care  a  good 
deal  more  for  'lection  and  meetin'  than 
they  do  for  fishing.  But  sometimes  per- 
sons who  were  once  boys  go  back  to  the 
old  homesteads  during  the  hot  summer 
days,  and  these  old  boys  have  not  forgot- 
ten the  brook  nor  the  trout  that  they 
used  to  string  on  a  forked  willow  stick, 
as  slippery  as  it  was  yellow.  The  big 
trout  has  not  had  experience  with  so  very 
many  hooks,  but  perhaps  once  a  year  for 
the  last  ten  years  he  has  had  a  misunder- 
standing with  a  fisherman,  and  ten  lasting 
impressions  have  been  made  on  his  memory. 


The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy.      45 

For  eleven  months  and  one  week  in 
every  year  the  hemlock,  the  boulder,  the 
eddy,  and  the  trout  are  inseparable  ;  but 
when  in  the  late  September  days  the  squeal- 
ing wood-duck  paddles  among  the  float- 
ing dead  leaves  with  his  pretty  red  feet, 
and  the  muskrat  with  thickening  fur  dives 
under  the  boulder  in  search  of  a  winter 
home,  the  trout  has  departed. 

Then  it  is  that  one  can  hear  inquiring 
voices  among  the  brook  sounds  if  he  will 
sit  quietly  and  not  disturb  the  nymphs. 
Under  the  hemlock's  roots  the  voices  are 
low  and  congratulatory.  The  nymphs 
there  know  the  old  rascal  too  well  to  wish 
him  back  again,  but  they  seem  afraid 
to  speak  much  above  a  whisper,  and  they 
hardly  dare  inquire  for  news  among  their 
neighbors  in  the  rocks  ;  but  every  now 
and  then  a  sprightly  voice  from  up  stream 
or  from  down  stream  will  call  impatiently 
for  an  answer  from  the  eddy.  An  up- 
stream sprite  asks  if  a  mink  has  caught  the 
trout,  and  softly  comes  an  answer,  saying 
that  the  trout  has  learned  by  experience 
to  lie  so  near  the  bottom  that  a  mink  can- 


46     The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy. 

not  seize  him  from  below,  and  he  certainly 
could  not  be  caught  fairly.  "  How  about 
the  water  snakes  ? "  asks  another ;  and 
the  reply,  "  He  is  too  large  for  them  to 
fight,"  comes  back  in  a  moment.  "  Has  a 
snapping-turtle  caught  him  ?  "  is  asked  ; 
but  a  dozen  replies  at  once  say  that  no 
snapping-turtle  has  passed  along  the 
stream  for  a  year  and  a  half.  "Has  a 
fisherman  got  him  ?  "  asks  one  ;  and  such 
a  chuckling  and  laughing  comes  from  all 
sides  that  one  is  quickly  convinced  that 
the  fisherman  is  the  least  dangerous  of 
the  four  enemies  of  the  trout. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  in  the 
fall  the  old  trout's  fancy  lightly  turns  to 
thoughts  of  love,  and  in  this  connection  I 
might  as  well  say  that  of  late  years  he  has 
been  guilty  of  bigamy.  Formerly  he 
would  quietly  leave  the  eddy  on  a  late 
September  day,  and  go  down  stream  to  a 
shallow  nook  where  a  lively  spring  made 
the  sand  boil  up  at  the  bottom  in  four  or 
five  puffs  at  a  time  ;  where  the  caddis 
worms  built  their  armor  of  sticks  and 
mica  scales,  and  where  alders  growing 


The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy.      47 

thickly,  arched  their  branches  overhead 
and  shaded  the  pool.  In  this  bower  he 
found  his  lovely  wife  patiently  waiting  for 
him,  and  although  he  would  pay  her 
pretty  close  attention  for  a  few  days  and 
pretend  to  be  interested,  he  would  soon 
wander  about  and  flirt  with  the  little  girl 
trout,  who  went  wild  over  his  beauty  but 
who  had  never  seen  the  old  villain  at 
home  in  his  eddy. 

Two  or  three  years  ago,  however,  a 
heavy  ice  floe  coming  down  in  the  spring 
freshet  knocked  a  new  hole  in  the  dam, 
and  whenever  the  water  is  high  enough  in 
early  October,  the  trout  runs  up  through 
the  hole,  and  goes  to  see  a  wife  that  he 
met  under  the  lily-pads  in  still  water  in 
the  pond.  She  is  larger  even  than  he  is, 
and  lazier,  and  not  nearly  so  attractive 
as  the  down-stream  wife.  Her  eggs  too 
are  dull  yellow,  while  the  down-stream 
wife's  eggs  are  bright  straw  color,  and  why 
it  is  that  he  enjoys  the  pond  trout's  com- 
pany no  one  can  tell  ;  but  there's  no 
accounting  for  tastes. 

The  old  trout  is  not  very  deeply  affected 


48     The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy. 

by  love,  and  he  is  always  back  at  the 
boulder  by  the  middle  of  October. 

Just  a  word  about  his  children's  nursery  : 

Down  where  the  sunshine  is  stirred  in  the  water 
By  zephyrs  that  bend  the  thin  tops  of  the  sedge, 

The  stream  shallows  out  at  the  head  of  the  meadow, 
And  dammed  by  a  log,  widens  more  at  the  edge. 

The  nettles  are  rank  on  the  rich  bank  about  it, 
And  out  on  the  log  straggle  tussocks  of  grass  ; 

Beneath  the  warm  driftwood  the  cricket  is  chirping, 
And  green-headed  frogs  tune  their  throats  for 
the  class. 

The  little  trout  practise  at  vaulting  and  leaping, 
And  stir  up  the  sand  in  their  still,  shallow  pool  ; 

From  daylight  to  darkness,  and  all  through  the 

moonlight, 
They  try  every  trick  that  is  taught  in  their  school. 

They  strain  at  a  gnat  and  then  swallow  a  lady-bug  ; 

Deep  into  air  they  all  dive  for  a  fly  ; 
But  larger  they  're  growing,  not  learning  the  lesson 

That  careless  ones  jumping  at  feathers  may  die. 

And  some  of  them  reaching  the  age  of  discretion, 
Will  solemnly  hunt  for  a  deep  shady  hole  ; 

And  like  their  old  father — as  cruel  as  Nero — 
Will  live  as  they  please,  without  conscience  or 
soul. 


The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy.      49 

I. wonder  if  the  old  trout  remembers  my 
attempt  at  getting  him  out  upon  the  bank 
last  June.  Cautiously  I  had  crept  to  a 
point  where  the  bushes  hid  me  from  sight, 
and  slid  the  tip  of  the  slender  split-bamboo 
rod  through  the  same  opening  through 
which  the  alder  pole  had  been  poked  so 
many  times  in  years  gone  by.  With  a 
slight  cast,  the  brown-hackle  and  coach- 
man and  Reub  Wood  were  tossed  over 
the  lair  of  the  trout,  and  drawn  in  enticing 
zig-zags  between  the  foam  flecks  on  the 
water.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  arti- 
ficial flies  had  failed  to  tempt  him,  and 
when  the  cast  was  changed  to  a  grizzly- 
king,  a  silver-doctor,  and  a  stone-fly,  he 
just  kept  perfectly  still,  and  let  me  go 
through  all  the  motions  of  fishing,  as 
though  that  were  all  I  had  gone  out 
for. 

Under  a  fungus-covered  log  I  found  a 
handsome  pink  and  squirming  angleworm, 
that  did  its  very  best  on  a  bait  hook  deep 
down  where  the  trout's  nose  ought  to 
have  been,  but  there  was  no  demonstra- 
tion of  appreciation  on  the  part  of  the 


50     The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy. 

autocrat  of  the  eddy.  Next  I  found  in 
the  moss  a  crimson  newt  that  looked 
delicious  enough  for  anybody  to  bite,  and 
when  the  hook  was  carefully  passed 
through  a  small  fold  of  skin,  so  as  not  to 
hurt  much,  he  was  tossed  over  into  the 
pool.  Around  .and  around  in  little  circles 
the  newt  swam,  and  deeper  and  deeper, 
until  there  was  only  a  faint  red  wriggle  to 
be  seen  way  down  by  the  shelf  of  the 
rock.  Suddenly  a  vigorous  tug  whisked 
the  tip  of  the  rod  under  water,  the  reel 
gave  a  scream,  and  then  all  was  quiet 
again  ;  but  I  could  feel  the  old  fellow's 
teeth  grating  on  the  tense  line  as  he  sul- 
lenly moved  his  head  from  side  to  side. 
Every  instant  I  expected  a  rush  up  stream, 
and  a  tumbling  wrestle  in  the  swift  water 
above  the  eddy,  but  still  there  was  omi- 
nous quiet.  There  I  stood  all  ready  for 
action,  the  tip  of  the  rod  curved  over  and 
almost  dipping  into  the  water,  the  line 
drawn  as  tightly  as  a  banjo  string  and 
leading  straight  down  into  the  depths  of 
the  slow  current.  Gradually  reeling  in 
the  line,  the  trout  came  heavily  to  the  sur- 


The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy.      51 

face  with  all  fins  set,  and  surging  doggedly 
back  and  forth  with  short  strokes  of  his 
sturdy  tail. 

What  could  such  tactics  mean  ?  Why 
was  he  reserving  his  strength  at  a  moment 
when,  according  to  my  notion,  he  ought 
to  be  tearing  about  in  frantic  efforts  to 
escape  ?  The  landing-net  was  reached 
out  toward  him.  It  was  almost  under 
him  when,  with  a  tremendous  plunge,  he 
threw  a  shower  of  spray  in  my  face,  and 
the  broken  line,  swishing  through  the  air, 
snarled  among  the  hemlock  branches  high 
up  out  of  reach. 

The  hook  has  worked  out  of  his  mouth 
by  this  time,  and  at  this  very  moment  he 
lies  at  the  edge  of  the  boulder  beneath 
the  hemlock,  waving  his  tail  slowly  to 
keep  his  position  in  the  uncertain  current 
of  the  eddy.  When  the  stream  roars  with 
autumn  rains  he  will  swing  his  tail  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  roar.  When  it  thunders 
in  the  spring  freshet  he  will  churn  the 
strong  current  with  defiant  tail  strokes, 
and  stay  by  his  boulder.  When  the 
summer  stream  is  gentle  he  will  wave 


52     The  Autocrat  of  the  Eddy. 

his  tail  softly  near  the  bottom  sands,  and 
poise  by  the  shelf  of 'gneiss;  and  as 
years  go  on  there  will  still  be  found 
together  the  hemlock,  the  boulder,  the 
eddy,  and  the  trout. 


WATCHING  THE  BRANT 
GROW  BIG. 

r  I  ^HE  raw  east  wind  is  shiver-laden. 
J_  Fine  grains  of  sand  scurrying  along 
the  frozen  beach  rattle  into  the  ghastly 
open  mouth  and  out  through  the  ragged 
bones  of  the  breeze-dried  gurnard.  A 
song-sparrow  flips  for  a  moment  into  a 
thrummed  marsh  elder  and  then  falls  into 
the  salty  desiccated  grass  again  and  hides 
himself  away  from  a  wind  that  askews  his 
tail  and  parts  his  soft  feathers  almost  to 
the  place  where  his  cheery  song  is  con- 
cealed. It  is  not  time  for  him.  He 
helps  make  springtime  but  cannot  do  it 
all  alone.  Wait,  little  one,  we  give  you 
credit.  A  herring-gull  essays  to  give  life 
to  the  March  morning  by  hovering  in  low 
circles  over  the  ruffling  black  channel 
water,  and  then  finds  it  more  in  keeping 

53 


54  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

to  stop  and  merge  his  color  into  that  of  a 
stranded  ice  floe  in  the  distance.  The 
leaden  heaven  moves  slowly  over  us,  un- 
broken save  for  the  slanting  missiles  of 
sleet  that  peck  against  the  cabin  window 
and  then  bound  full  tilt  to  their  grand- 
mother the  good  old  South  Bay.  Captain 
Jack,  finishing  his  early  cup  of  hot  coffee 
down  below,  comes  up  out  of  the  compan- 
ion-way on  deck  in  his  woollen  shirt, 
hitches  up  one  suspender,  runs  his  hands 
through  his  grizzly  unwilling  hair,  hawks 
and  expectorates  over  the  rail.  "  Golly  ! 
Tide  runs  like  a  hoss,  don't  it?"  says 
he,  as  a  tangle  of  submerged  eel-grass 
scratches  alongside  in  the  swift  ebb,  and 
the  bowsprit  of  the  sloop  sidling  in  the 
inlet  current,  bunts  a  periwinkle  shell  out 
of  the  hard  marsh  bank  that  protected  us 
at  anchor  during  the  night.  Captain  Jack 
does  not  produce  much  effect  in  the  land- 
scape about  the  marshes,  because  he  looks 
so  much  like  any  natural  object — except- 
ing when  he  comes  to  town.  He  has 
stout  muscles  and  a  good  heart.  'T  is 
only  his  head  that  fails  when  he  comes  in 
contact  with  civilization. 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  55 

The  sea  air  smells.  It  is  growing  richer 
with  the  exhalations  from  looming  flats  as 
the  tide  shrinks,  and  with  ozone  from  the 
growling,  muttering  surf  of  the  outer 
beach.  I,  eagerly  inhaling,  find  in  dis- 
tending lungfuls  of  it  the  peace  of  the  in- 
fusoria of  the  flats  and  the  power  of  the 
grand,  swinging  ocean.  Every  breath 
soiled  by  me  is  carried  onward  and  away 
to  the  westward  and  replaced  by  a  new 
one.  How  long,  clean  east  wind,  before  I 
am  translucent  within  ?  For  last  night 
we  left  the  city  where  men  call  air  the 
emanations  from  percolating  swill  and 
cast-off  things,  and  where  the  tarnishing 
atmosphere,  laden  with  entities  of  death, 
reeks  in  the  nostrils  and  dulls  the  eyes  of 
that  poor  mammal  whose  brain  hangs  de- 
pendent over  figures  and  fads,  amid  the 
walls  and  corridors  and  walls  again,  that 
keep  from  him  the  sight  of  this  sweet 
world.  Is  any  other  love  like  love  for 
nature  ?  Is  any  joy  like  the  joy  of  the 
sportsman  ?  I  have  seen  the  mother  with 
eyes  suffused  with  tears  of  love  for  the 
chubby  boy  in  her  arms.  I  have  heard 
the  maiden  pray  for  power  to  love  her 


56  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

lover  more.  But  these  loves  are  uncertain. 
The  boy  grows  wicked  and  brings  gray 
hairs  and  tears  of  sorrow.  The  lover  is 
better  pleased  with  another.  But  nature 
is  steadfast.  In  the  city  the  slinking  street- 
cur  brings  forth  her  mongrel  whelps  be- 
neath the  wharf,  not  knowing  whence 
shall  come  the  food  to  turn  to  milk,  and 
the  pampered  pug,  bonbon-fed,  has  not 
the  strength  to  propagate  her  kind.  But 
here  all  life  multiplies,  and  in  abundance, 
and  forever. 

The  bars  of  sand  that  divide  currents 
into  currents  and  that  direct  the  appor- 
tionment of  bay  waters,  are  shining  yellow 
here  and  there,  and  the  white  froth  rolls 
up  and  blows  across  them.  Hark  !  From 
out  the  west  a  merry,  flying  rabble  ap- 
pears, buffeting  the  winds,  caring  naught 
for  the  cold.  A  rabble  of  warm  birds  that 
on  even  line  head  down  the  bay  with  hurry- 
ing wings  and  outstretched  necks,  chant- 
ing as  they  go,  and  in  good  company. 
Hark  to  the  sound  of  their  voices  as  they 
pass.  Did  ever  crowd  of  students  seem 
more  hilarious  ?  Did  ever  more  careless 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  57 

throng  play  easy  with  the  elements  ?  One 
sings,  and  then  another.  Hear  then  all 
throats  together.  Here  a  cluck  and  there 
a  tremolo,  then  back  and  forth  the  slogan 
goes  till  the  disappearing  huddle  leaves  in 
its  wake  vibrations  that  have  softened  the 
winds  and  set  the  waves  to  tune.  To-night 
when  all  is  still  in  the  cabin  you  may  hear 
those  voices  of  the  morning  when  no  birds 
are  near.  When  you  are  at  home  in  the 
city,  a  strange,  weird  music  will  come  as 
you  sit  before  the  grate  fire  in  the  twilight. 
The  chimney  winds  have  caught  the  ca- 
dence of  the  voices  of  the  brant,  and  look- 
ing into  the  gloom  of  the  room  you  will 
see  again  the  moving  wings  that  float 
adown  the  ceiling.  'T  is  the  shadow  of 
vibrations  that  have  come  from  the  far-off 
bay.  No  others  can  hear  the  sound  or  see 
the  motion.  'T  is  for  you  alone,  this  de- 
light of  wandering  impression  that  comes 
through  miles  of  shadow,  to  you  sympa- 
thetic. 

Upon  a  narrow  sand-bar  lapped  oy  the 
receding  waves,  Captain  Jack  and  I  step 
out,  to  be  saluted  by  the  jets  of  forty 


58  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

clams.  We  will  not  forget  this  recog- 
nition on  their  part  when  it  is  time  to  re- 
turn to  the  boat.  In  the  sand-bar  there  is 
a  sunken  box  just  big  enough  for  me  to 
hide  in.  Its  edges  are  level  with  the  sur- 
face of  the  sand,  excepting  where  the  last 
high  tide  wanted  some  of  the  sand  to 
make  little  wavy  ridges  with.  Captain 
spades  up  fresh  sand  to  hide  the  box  with, 
and  while  this  is  being  done  I  walk  to  a 
higher  part  of  the  bar  that  has  not  been 
under  water  for  three  or  four  tides.  The 
wind  has  thrown  the  light  sand  into  waves 
and  ridges,  just  as  the  water  would  have 
done  it.  So  wind  and  water  are  good 
chums  off  on  the  Bay.  Here  is  a  bunch 
of  old  wrack  that  pulled  a  scallop  shell 
from  its  quiet  bed,  and  came  to  grief  on 
the  bar.  Here  is  a  dried  bit  of  leathery 
devil's  apron  that  was  torn  from  an  ocean 
meadow  perhaps  by  some  derelict  hull 
roving  in  the  faintly-lighted  depths  with- 
out commission.  Here  is  a  cork  that  once 
was  young  and  tender  bark  in  Spain, 
growing  under  southern  stars  until  men 
bargained  for  it  with  money.  Then  it 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  59 

perhaps  saw  one  carousal  after  travelling 
to  foreign  shores,  and  it  will  be  buried  on 
this  cold  bar  by  shifting  sands.  Here  is  a 
feather  that  was  shaken  from  the  wing  of 
a  goose  yesterday,  when  I  was  not  as  near 
as  this  to  the  goose.  All  about  in  the 
sand  are  tracks  of  plebeian  gulls,  but  here 
is  something  better — here  is  the  patrician 
track  made  by  the  pretty  black  foot  of  a 
brant. 

I  lie  down  flat  upon  my  back  in  the  box. 
The  brant  decoys  are  standing  all  about 
so  naturally  that  only  the  Captain  and  I 
would  suspect  them  to  be  such  false 
things.  I  am  waiting.  The  box  is  cold 
and  wet.  The  spray  flies  into  my  eyes. 
The  surf  roars  in  the  distance.  One  eye 
peers  over  the  edge  of  the  box  and  scans 
the  horizon.  What  a  jingle  of  wings  was 
that,  as  a  beautiful  whistler  and  his  homely 
mate  passed  overhead.  They  have  fin- 
ished the  preliminary  love  experience  early 
in  the  year,  and  are  now  constant  and  true 
to  each  other  long  before  the  spring 
zephyrs  have  felted  into  love  the  vaga- 
rious fancies  of  other  water  fowl.  How 


6o  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

strange  that  the  male  should  be  the  most 
beautiful  among  almost  all  living  things 
excepting  the  people.  And  yet  the  male 
whistler,  superb  as  he  is,  had  to  seek  his 
mate  and  go  through  a  lot  of  nonsense, 
just  as  though  she  were  a  beautiful  girl. 

I  did  not  shoot  at  that  pair  of  whistlers. 
They  would  have  made  an  excellent  stew, 
with  pork  and  potatoes  in  the  same  pot ; 
but  they  were  so  happy  with  each  other 
that  I  allowed  them  to  pass.  It  makes  my 
mouth  water  now  to  think  of  them  for 
dinner,  but  the  treason  is  all  in  my  stomach 
and  not  a  bit  of  it  in  my  heart.  Flocks 
of  brant  are  moving  down  the  bay  in 
straggling  bunches  or  in  even  lines. 
Some  oysterman  has  stirred  them  up,  or 
perhaps  they  think  that  the  eel-grass  is 
more  tender  farther  on,  and  they  will  en- 
joy it  until  it  seems  to  be  not  quite  so 
good  as  the  grass  that  they  left.  Few 
people  know  why  the  brant  move  back 
and  forth  in  this  way,  but  I  know  just  how 
they  feel,  because  I  have  many  times 
camped  on  one  end  of  a  pond  and  always 
found  the  fishing  best  away  up  at  the  other 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  61 

end,  no  matter  which  end  I  camped  on. 
Thus  the  eel-grass  in  the  distance  is 
always  green  for  the  brant. 

Four  brant  are  coming  this  way.  Are 
they  coming  this  way  or  will  they  choose 
some  other  bar?  They  are  winnowing 
along  low  over  the  water  and  apparently 
looking  for  companions.  I  throw  up  one 
foot  to  attract  their  attention.  They  see 
it.  They  slacken  speed  and  "  lift "  for  a 
better  view.  Yes  !  They  see  the  decoys. 
Look  out  now  !  On  they  come  and  bigger 
they  grow.  At  first  they  were  no  larger 
than  pigeons,  now  they  are  as  big  as  ducks, 
and  in  a  moment  more  they  will  look 
as  big  as  rocs,  before  my  very  eyes,  and 
right  here  with  me — all  of  us  active — in  a 
few  cubic  feet  of  the  world.  They  have 
ability  to  be  elsewhere,  but  they  won't  use 
their  resources  in  time.  They  will  be 
right  here  in  the  midst  of  the  trouble. 
They  call  to  the  decoys.  I  answer.  How 
fine  and  black  their  shapely  heads  and 
necks.  What  strong  brown  wings.  They 
are  coming.  Now  they  swerve  to  the 
northward.  There  they  circle  back,  show- 


62  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

ing  white  flanks  as  they  wheel  into  line. 
They  are  not  coming.  They  are  going 
toward  the  middle  of  the  bay.  See  that 
persistent  one.  He  wants  to  come  to  me 
and  the  others  do  not,  but  that  one  is 
so  determined  that  the  others  weaken  in 
their  good  judgment  and  follow  him. 
Now  they  stop  fluttering.  One  sets  his 
wings,  another  sets  his  wings,  all  four  set 
their  wings,  and  come  slantting  down  an 
easy  incline  of  air  right  toward  the  decoys. 
Neck  and  neck,  wing  and  wing,  tail  and 
tail,  on  they  come.  Up  I  jump  and  breed 
confusion.  "  Ronk  /  "  says  one,  and  down 
through  the  smoke  he  tumbles  with  a 
mighty  splash.  "  Kruk  !  Kruk!"  says 
another,  and  then  he  makes  the  spray  fly 
ten  feet  into  the  air  at  the  edge  of  the 
bar,  and  causes  the  clams  to  squirt  for 
rods  around.  "  B-r-a-n-t !  B-r-r-r-a-n-t ! 
B-r-r-r-a-n-t  / "  say  the  other  two,  swish- 
ing themselves  right  up  into  high  air. 
Yes,  brant  they  are,  and  beauties  too. 

The  March  wind  is  piercing,  the  box  is 
damp,  the  flying  sleet  rattles  on  my  coat. 
I  lie  upon  my  back  listening  to  the  lapping 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  63 

of  the  waves,  the  crepitation  of  shifting 
sand,  the  rustle  of  the  moving  tide  and 
the  voices  of  distant  brant  and  gulls.  The 
cold  clouds  overhead  have  no  comfort  in 
them.  My  teeth  chatter  and  a  tear  runs 
down  my  right  cheek.  Wet  sand  sticks 
to  the  skin  between  my  red  fingers.  One 
small  mouthful  of  just  the  right  thing 
suffices  to  start  in  my  innermost  depths 
a  dull  cherry  red  glow  that  gradually 
diffuses  itself  in  grateful  warmth  to  the 
middle  of  every  bone  and  to  the  ends  of 
my  wet  sandy  fingers.  Who  would  object 
to  that,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?  Now  then  for 
another  brant.  There  comes  one  from  away 
up  the  bay.  Is  he  going  or  coming?  Com- 
ing !  No — going !  Well,  it  all  depends  on 
which  end  his  head  is  placed,  and  I  can- 
not tell  from  here.  He  is  coming  !  Big- 
ger he  grows  and  rounder  he  appears,  and 
being  alone  will  seek  company.  He  sees 
the  decoys  and  comes  straight  toward 
them  without  regard  to  the  direction  of 
the  wind.  Now  he  stops  flying  and  comes 
tilting  along  unsteadily  on  curved  set 
wings,  balancing,  sidling,  balancing,  com- 


64  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

ing,  growing  bigger  and  bigger  as  he 
skims  the  foamy,  splattering  waves  without 
quite  touching  them.  I  '11  let  him  alight. 
There,  now!  Right  on  the  bar  between  me 
and  the  decoys.  How  trim  his  outlines 
are,  and  how  gracefully  he  walks  for  one  of 
the  goose  family.  Why  do  those  bright 
dark  eyes  fail  to  perceive  me  ?  He  is 
young,  as  his  wing  coverts  show  by  their 
ashy  tipped  feathers,  and  knowing  that 
age  is  to  be  respected  he  puts  confidence 
in  the  old  decoys,  unwilling  to  believe 
that  I  am  terrible.  He  scoops  up  a  bill- 
ful  of  sand  here  and  there  where  it  looks 
particularly  tempting,  and  asks  the  decoys 
something  in  a  low  voice.  Now,  I  must 
take  him  into  the  box,  for  other  brant  will 
be  coming.  He  jumps  almost  like  a  wood- 
cock as  I  show  him  a  great  jack-in-a-box, 
and — Halloa!  Right  barrel  snapped  ;  left 
one  shot  a  little  under  as  the  wind  slanted 
him  to  one  side.  There  he  goes  as  fast 
as  ever  he  can,  away,  away,  away.  I 
never  saw  that  brant  before  in  all  my  life 
and  never  shall  see  him  again. 

Out  of  the  west   horizon   a   corps  of 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  65 

twenty  brant  comes  marching  along 
through  the  air,  as  orderly  as  soldiers. 
I  throw  up  a  hand  to  attract  their  atten- 
tion. They  swerve.  They  wanted  to 
come  to  this  bar  in  the  first  place,  but 
they  have  somewhere  seen  someone  else 
throw  up  a  hand  to  them,  and  the  old 
ganders  are  suspicious.  There  are  too 
many  eyes  in  that  flock.  Some  of  the 
younger  birds  start  toward  the  bar  again 
and  the  wary  ones  follow.  Good  judg- 
ment does  n't  count  amonor  friends.  On 

O 

they  come  with  a  great  clamor,  some  ris- 
ing some  settlino-  some  hoarse,  some 

O'  O7 

clear  voiced,  some  curving  their  wings  to 
sail  in,  some  fluttering  and  wavering  and 
giving  cries  of  warning.  The  whole  flock 
huddles  and  separates,  and  huddles  and 
rises,  and  wheels  to  go  away.  Then  they 
turn  and  head  for  the  decoys  again,  but 
the  old  birds  have  mounted  high  enough 
to  peer  over  into  my  box  and  they  cry 
"  Look  !  Look  ! "  with  such  vigor  that  the 
whole  drove  again  whirls  into  a  broadside 
for  final  departure  nearly  twenty  rods 
away.  The  shot  slaps  and  cracks  against 


66  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

their  feathers,  but  only  one  bird  slips 
out  of  the  flock  and  drops  perpendicularly 
into  the  water,  while  the  rest  choose  a 
horizontal  trajectory.  Too  many  eyes. 
Too  far  away. 

It  is  almost  noon.  The  tide  has  fallen 
so  far  away  that  there  is  no  water  near  the 
bar,  and  no  more  birds  will  come  until  an- 
other tide  has  risen.  There  is  plenty  of 
humble  game  within  reach  for  the  larder, 
though.  Razor  clams  first  !  The  edges 
of  their  shells  are  just  on  a  level  with  the 
soft  sand  of  the  flat,  but  they  must  be  ap- 
proached gently,  for  they  are  sensitive  in 
the  company  of  strangers,  and  the  fingers 
of  a  hungry  enemy  will  grasp  only  a  little 
maelstrom  of  roily  water  unless  he  is  care- 
ful. I  seize  one  of  the  razors,  but  how 
hard  he  pulls  !  Working  him  back  and 
forth  rapidly  in  his  hole  causes  the  water 
to  loosen  the  sand  all  about  him,  and  up 
comes  a  long,  fat  fellow,  twisting  his  white 
foot  in  efforts  to  escape.  When  we  work 
a  razor  back  and  forth  in  his  hole  the  sand 
around  him  becomes  mushy,  according  to 
a  definite  plan  of  nature,  which  turns  the 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  67 

chances  immediately  against  the  clam  in 
favor  of  the  one  who  ought  to  have  him. 
It  will  not  do  to  be  greedy  and  pull  too 
quickly,  for  nature  has  decreed  that  in 
such  case  the  microbes  are  to  have  the 
plump  separated  foot,  while  man  is  to  con- 
tent himself  with  the  pretty  shell  contain- 
ing only  liver  and  gills  and  other  organic 
bric-a-brac.  It  does  not  take  long  to 
gather  a  handful  of  razor  clams,  but  that 
is  not  enough,  and  I  cannot  lay  them  down 
while  gathering  more  because  they  would 
walk  offand  poke  themselves  endwise  into 
the  sand  while  I  was  looking  the  other 
way.  It  makes  one  feel  like  a  cannibal  to 
eat  such  lively  animals,  but  if  men  are 
half  as  sweet  as  razor  clams,  we  must  be 
cautious  about  criticising  the  habits  of  the 
Sandwich  Islanders  of  the  old  school.  I 
cannot  lay  this  handful  down,  so  my  cap 
must  answer  for  a  basket.  A  fine  panful 
of  razors  we  finally  have  on  the  deck  of 
the  sloop.  Capt.  Jack  sets  up  serried 
ranks  of  them  in  the  dripping-pan  and  puts 
small  pieces  of  bacon  in  odd  nooks  and 
corners.  When  they  are  done  a  delicious 


68  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

steaming  morsel  lies  upon  a  gaping  shell, 
all  ready  for  a  little  lump  of  butter  and  a 
plunge  for  the  good  of  those  chosen  ones 
who  know  how  to  catch  razor  clams. 

We  pull  the  boat  up  out  of  the  main 
channel  and  spear  a  few  eels.  Over  miles 
of  this  bottom  one  can  strike  a  spear 
blindly  into  the  mud  with  fair  probability 
of  hitting  an  eel  that  has  stored  himself 
up  for  the  winter  a  few  inches  below  the 
surface,  and  in  choice  spots  two  eels  some- 
times come  up  at  once  on  the  tines  of  the 
spear.  It  is  taking  unfair  advantage  to 
spear  the  half-torpid  things,  but  they  are 
delectable  and  that  makes  a  difference. 
Then  again  we  can  get  revenge  on  behalf 
of  the  crabs,  for  nothing  is  more  relentless 
than  an  eel  that  has  set  out  to  remove 
one  by  one  the  legs  of  a  confused  and 
most  uncomfortable  soft  crab.  We  can 
spare  the  denizens  of  the  bottom  many 
such  sights  by  incarcerating  a  bucketful 
of  the  offenders.  When  there  are  eels 
enough  in  the  pail  we  push  the  boat  over 
quahog  ground,  and  no  matter  how  hard 
it  blows  or  how  fiercely  the  sleet  drives,  a 


Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big.  69 

lot  of  round  quahogs  are  soon  rolling  into 
the  scuppers  and  wedging  themselves  into 
the  rake  just  as  our  fingers  get  warm  and 
dry.  We  have  to  be  a  little  cautious  in 
walking  about,  because  it  is  a  well-known 
fact  that  the  quahog  will  turn  when  trod- 
den upon. 

Now  for  the  soft-shelled  clams  that  fired 
a  salute  when  we  alighted  upon  their  bar 
in  the  morning.  The  shooting-box  spade 
turns  them  out  of  their  compact  moulds 
in  the  sand  half  a  dozen  at  a  time.  Ten- 
der and  luscious  they  are,  and  so  corpulent 
that  they  cannot  draw  their  necks  into  the 
shell  and  close  the  shell  at  the  same  time. 
Just  one  thing  more  and  the  larder  is 
complete  for  the  day.  We  anchor  in  deep 
water  between  the  submerged  flats  and 
crack  open  a  quahog,  putting  a  sweet 
clean  piece  upon  the  hook,  and  casting 
the  line  astern.  In  a  minute  the  sinker 
is  dancing ;  I  give  a  quick  jerk  and  then 
bring  up  hand  over  fist  a  fish  as  flat  as 
a  flounder  and  weighing  about  a  pound, 
made  of  just  the  right  shape  to  fit  the 
bottom  of  a  frying-pan  and  become 


?o  Watching  the  Brant  Grow  Big. 

nicely  browned  on  both  sides  when  the 
fins  curl  up  in  a  crisp.  Five  or  six  flappy 
flounders  are  pulled  up  on  deck,  and  away 
we  go  again  to  our  safe  anchorage.  Who 
would  ever  go  hungry  on  the  Great  South 
Bay  ?  There,  within  a  radius  of  half  a 
mile,  we  have  helped  ourselves  abundantly 
to  brant,  razor  clams,  quahogs,  soft  clams, 
eels  and  flounders,  and  have  had  such  fun 
in  doing  it  that  we  want  the  man  who  is 
prepared  for  suicide  to  come-  down  here 
for  one  day's  sport  before  he  decides  that 
life  is  really  too  much  of  a  bother.  Our 
hands  are  cold,  our  clothes  are  wet,  espe- 
cially at  vital  points.  Our  noses  and  ears 
would  do  yeoman  service  in  a  summer 
refrigerator.  But  the  cabin  stove  has  a 
red  hot  lid,  and  the  change  to  dry  warm 
woollen  clothing  with  a  cup  of  hot  coffee 
will  pay  for  a  month  of  discomfort.  I  am 
sorry  for  the  man  who  never  stops  to  think 
how  well  off  he  is  with  his  every-day 
clothes  on. 


THE  LAIR  OF  SOMETHING 
STRIPED. 


''T^HAT  rock  's  awash,  aswash.  Tighter 
J.  draws  the  mussel  on  his  byssus. 
The  tide  has  turned.  A  thousand  kelp 
streamers  point  the  way  the  flood  must 
go,  and  eagerly,  not  drooping  as  at  last  of 
ebb  when  obedience  had  seemed  to  satisfy 
their  importuning. 

The  seeping  barnacles  make  merry 
and  clap  their  valves,  for  diatoms  are 
coming,  the  sweet,  the  beautiful,  food  for 
the  rough  and  ugly  ;  coming  from  the 
devious  gardens  that  they  glorified  among 
the  schist  splinters  and  boulders,  beneath 
the  swelling  and  subsiding  and  unceasing 
flow  of  green  illumined  sea  water. 

The  rock  is  yet  uncovered.      No  't  is 
not.     And  then   once  more  it  seems  to 
sink,  till  the  lolling  pelage  of  wrack  lifts 
71 


72  The  Lair  of  Something  Striped. 

up  a  sign  for  help  to  the  slow  sweep  of  an 
engulfing  wave,  and  welters  disconsolate 
though  the  saved  rock  again  appears.  It 
is  not  to  disappear  for  long,  this  archaic 
boulder  of  granite.  It  has  never  moved 
but  once  e'en  though  the  mammoth  rubbed 
it  with  his  woolly  ear  or  the  heedless  elas- 
mosaurus  bounced  against  it  in  the  chase. 
It  moved  but  once,  and  then  the  straining 
glacier  dropped  its  load  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliff.  Up  that  bold  gray  cliff  the  autumn 
breaker  bounds,  roaring  and  splurging 
with  hoarse  challenge,  till  clouds  of  spray 
separated  in  the  churning  turmoil  float  up 
to  higher  ether  to  make  sunset  nimbus, 
and  show  the  October  foliage  what  gentle 
beauty  may  come  from  harsh  parentage  as 
well  as  from  homes  of  peace. 

At  the  foot  of  the  cliff  purling  summer 
coamers  smooth  the  hard  walls  that  resist. 

The  boulder,  sunken  but  a  fathom  at 
the  flood,  rises  not  enough  to  arouse  the 
ire  of  forceful  antagonists,  and  unmoved 
as  sphinx  to  the  questions  of  the  changing 
seas,  it  needs  not  to  turn  before  the  brunt, 
not  topple  to  the  wooing.  Now  the  tide 


The  Lair  of  Something  Striped.   73 

runs  smoothly  over  it.  Caught  in  an  eddy 
a  red  seaweed  whirls  and  spreads  its  shoots, 
and  a  sertularia  colony  swinging  near  has 
descended  to  mimicry  of  botany  without 
putting  on  any  air  of  condescension.  The 
tremulous  algae  waving  from  cliffto  boulder 
and  from  boulder  to  cliff,  make  in  the  water 
a  clear  arcade,  a  runway.  Out  from  a 
crevice  glides  a  cautious  cRogset  into  the 
runway,  now  poising  by  a  crimson  sponge, 
then  backing  slowly  underneath  a  trans- 
lucent green  sheet  of  sea  kale.  A  crab 
makes  haste  to  cross  the  round  yellow 
bottom  pebbles,  carrying  a  burden  that 
he  fain  would  hide,  for  this  is  a  lair,  and 
he  knows  it.  What  is  his  burden,  though  ? 
Oh,  look,  you  unbelievers  in  disinterested 
friendship.  'T  is  a  stranger  crab  that  had 
to  shed  its  armor,  and  unprotected  needs 
the  guarding  of  a  friend  for  two  whole 
days  or  more.  There  's  nothing  "  in  it," 
as  the  politicians  say,  for  the  faithful  pro- 
tector, and  yet  he  will  not  weary,  but  fight 
valiantly  if  necessary,  and  lose  his  very 
life,  and  for  that  there  is  no  reward  nor 
other  life, 


74  The  Lair  of  Something  Striped. 

Like  silver  arrows  a  troop  of  spearing 
nervously  dart  from  rock  to  wrack  and 
from  algae  to  the  surface,  not  stopping, 
but  alert,  leaving  a  lazy  enemy  no  hope. 
What  is  it  they  fear  in  this  quiet  aisle  ? 
A  slow  tautog  drops  with  the  current  into 
the  runway  and  then  as  deliberately  has 
gone. 

A  shrimp  escaping  from  the  sprightly 
pilot-fish  stupidly  backs  straight  into 
the  clutches  of  a  dull  sea  anemone  at 
the  bottom  of  the  boulder.  This  is  what 
might  be  called  a  turn  in  affairs.  The 
pilot-fish  knew  how  to  catch  a  shrimp. 
The  anemone  did  not.  The  anemone 
has  the  shrimp,  however,  and  possessing 
now  a  fortune  it  withdraws  from  old 
friends  and  becomes  exclusive  and  dis- 
agreeable. 

A  sinuous  eel  slides  in  and  out  among 
the  rocks,  searching  for  love-lorn  nereid,  or 
for  mantis  praying  for  relief  from  danger, 
which  is  granted  till  danger  comes,  and 
then  he  is  lost,  in  spite  of  supplications, 
for  nature  cares  no  more  for  the  back- 
sliding mantis  than  she  does  for  sleek 


The  Lair  of  Something  Striped.   75 

eels.  The  eel  keeps  near  the  bottom,  as 
though  fearing.  He  dreads  not  the  blue- 
fish  nor  bonita  nor  swift  squeteague,  for 
the  runway  between  the  boulder  and  the 
cliff  is  not  deep  enough  for  them.  See 
them  farther  out,  though,  rising  in  the 
curl  of  a  mounting  billow  till  the  sun  has 
shot  through  beneath  them,  leaping  with 
an  energy  that  goes  with  fish  that  fight 
strong  tides  for  life,  not  resting,  never 
lagging.  How  dangerous  such  needing 
maws  as  theirs  !  An  ink-laden  squid 
pumps  faster  with  his  siphon  engine  as  he 
steers  in  graceful  curve  through  the  run- 
way. He  too  suspects  that  it  is  a  lurking 
place.  What  shadow  slowly  moved  across 
the  bottom  then  ?  Was  it  from  some 
pausing  cormorant  or  circling  tern  ?  From 
this  jutting  storm-bleached  jag  of  cliff  I 
dare  to  look  up,  but  no  bird  flies  over- 
head. 'T  was  but  the  shifting  of  the  kelp 
perhaps,  for  down  in  the  runway  waters  I 
see  almost  as  clearly  as  through  the  north 
wind.  'T  was  but  the  waving  of  sea 
fronds. 

Why  though  has  all  sign  of  life  stopped 


76  The  Lair  of  Something  Striped. 

in  the  runway  ?  The  shadow  falls  across 
the  bottom,  and  following  it  from  behind 
the  curtain  of  fronds  there  comes  forth  a 
fish  so  stately,  so  dignified  in  bearing, 
that  surely  he  deigns  not  to  notice  these 
lesser  fish  that  flee  from  his  presence. 
Like  a  wolf  he  is.  Not  in  outer  likeness 
perhaps,  but  in  demeanor,  and  in  weight, 
and  that  great  weight  made  up  of  all  the 
sorts  of  things  that  swim  the  tide  or  crawl 
the  bottom,  collected  by  him  and  made  to 
form  a  fish  of  wondrous  strength,  with 
dark  straight  stripes  to  mark  the  shapely 
sides.  A  clear  stern  eye  has  he,  and  jaw 
like  any  trap.  His  glistening  scales  are 
white  where  white,  and  black  they  are 
where  black.  Resting  upon  broad  fins  he 
balances  beneath  the  sea  arbor  of  his  lair 
and  shows  no  fear,  but  seems  to  be  among 
familiar  surroundings.  I  '11  quietly  toss 
to  him  a  choice  bit  of  menhaden.  It 
slowly  drifting  sinks.  The  film  of  oil 
rises.  He  takes  the  bait  and  looks  for 
more.  I  '11  give  it  to  him.  There  's  a 
hook  in  it,  and  fastened  to  the  hook 
600  feet  of  hard-laid  line.  Down  the 


The  Lair  of  Something  Striped.    77 

current  it  settles.  He  spreads  a  broad 
tail  and  turns  quizzingly  sidewise  to  take 
a  look,  then  back  he  bends,  and  turning  a 
finely  outlined  nose  into  the  tide  rests 
again,  and  lets  the  baited  hook  slide  by. 

The  sun  sinking  below  the  horizon 
takes  one  last  look  into  the  sea  by  a  trick 
of  angular  refraction,  and  finding  the  bass 
all  safe  calmly  moves  away  to  make  day 
elsewhere  for  awhile. 

The  chink  of  a  migrating  finch  over- 
head, the  squeak  of  a  bat,  are  evening 
sounds,  and  their  harmony  is  not  marred 
by  the  splash  of  a  hooked  bass. 

The  moon  rises.  It  makes  a  straight 
and  lighted  road  through  the  midst  of 

o  o 

dark  heaving  waters.  The  fishes  are 
moving  on  beneath  the  waves,  the  birds 
are  flying  southward  overhead.  I  '11  hoist 
my  sail  and  follow  the  moon  road  between 
the  fishes  and  birds  and  think  of  ways  to 
catch  the  striped  bass. 


SUCKER  DAYS. 

THE  shytepokes  dangled  their  loose 
legs  doubtingly  before  settling 
down  to  a  wobbly  perch  among  the  red- 
budding  tops  of  the  soft  maple  saplings, 
but  after  many  balancings  and  upstretch- 
ing  of  necks  they  could  finally  look 
down  through  the  white  sumacs  and 
choose  a  safe  alighting  place  in  the  mucky, 
trembling  swamp  where  we  boys  never 
could  go.  It  was  not  a  large  swamp  ;  in 
fact,  it  would  not  strain  any  one  very  much 
to  heave  a  stone  half  way  across  it  now- 
adays, but  at  the  time  I  have  in  mind  it 
was  a  great  sphagnum-lined  mystery  of  a 
place,  and  it  seemed  to  us  youngsters  that 
the  other  side  was  way,  way  over  there. 
The  boulders  in  the  rough  pastures  round 
about  it  were  partly  hidden  with  chaplets 
of  huckleberry  bushes  and  sweet  fern, 
78 


Sucker  Days.  79 

and  here  and  there  along  the  stone  walls 
some  of  the  butternuts  that  a  past  gener- 
ation of  squirrels  hid  too  well  had  devel- 
oped into  scrawny  trees.  Through  the 
leafless  bushes  of  the  swamp  we  could  get 
a  glimpse  of  a  little  round  pond  hole  out 
near  the  middle,  and  tradition  had  it  that 
no  one  had  ever  found  bottom  there. 
That  was  because  no  one  had  ever  tried. 
If  any  one  had  ever  found  bottom  there 
he  surely  would  have  told  of  it ;  and  so 
the  question  remained  as  settled  with  us. 
The  swamp  was  just  one  of  a  thousand  in 
New  England,  but  special  interest  cen- 
tered in  this  one  because  Brown  Brook 
emerged  from  it,  and  with  its  many  little 
swirls  and  pourings  and  bubblings  among 
the  bogs  and  rocks  finally  entered  the  old 
mill-pond  right  where  the  button  bushes 
grew  thickest. 

Brown  Brook  was  not  exactly  a  spring 
brook,  because  in  the  summer-time  the 
water  got  pretty  warm,  and  sometimes 
there  wasn't  very  much  of  it  anyway,  and 
that 's  why  the  boy  of  whom  I  am  going  to 
write  never  heard  from  the  ten  small  mot- 


8o  Sucker  Days. 

tie-backed,  skittish  trout  that  he  lugged 
over  from  Sandy  Brook  in  a  tin  pail  and 
put  into  it.  Possibly  they  are  up  in  the 
bottomless  swamp  hole  now,  and  weighing 
a  pound  or  two  apiece,  but  only  the  minks 
know  about  that. 

There  was  one  thing  that  the  brook  was 
good  for  and  that  was  its  suckers.  Who 
ever  heard  tell  of  a  brook  that  was  good 
for  nothing?  In  the  springtime,  when 
the  soft  maples  were  beginning  to  invite 
the  purple  finches,  suckers  ran  up  from 
the  mill-pond,  and  during  the  day  re- 
mained beneath  the  large  stones  in  the 
brook.  When  school  was  out  for  noon 
recess  "us  boys"  had  time  to  run  over  to 
the  brook  and  catch  a  sucker  or  two  in 
our  hands  by  feeling  for  them  under  the 
stones  and  then  encircling  them  in  all  the 
death-like  grip  that  was  possible  in  short, 
chubby  fingers.  The  suckers  were  not 
very  large  ones,  but  sometimes  a  half- 
pounder  was  caught,  and  on  a  day  that  I 
want  to  remember  all  about,  the  boy  found 
an  "awfully"  great  big  oneway  in  under  a 
shelving  rock.  Just  as  he  was  getting 


Sucker  Days.  81 

ready  to  grab,  the  sucker  darted  out  be- 
tween the  boy's  feet  and  fluttered  and 
splashed  over  the  ripples  into  another  hole 
farther  down  stream. 

Any  fish  is  to  a  boy  something  worthy 
of  his  entire  attention,  and  it  did  n't  mat- 
ter if  the  water  in  the  hole  where  the  big 
sucker  had  gone  was  rather  deep,  for  who 
cared  about  getting  in  over  the  tops  of 
his  boots  when  such  a  fish  was  within 
reach !  I  don't  remember  exactly  how 
old  the  boy  was,  but  probably  he  had  not 
heard  the  first  jingling  of  the  peep-frogs 
more  than  eight  times,  and  it  was  hard 
for  such  small  ears  to  notice  the  bell  that 
announced  the  ending  of  recess  time,  or 
the  calls  of  Ned  Ellis  and  Joe  Carroll  as 
they  ran  back  to  school. 

The  boy  knew  precisely  under  which 
stone  the  big  sucker  had  gone,  and  care- 
fully reaching  one  hand  beneath  it  he 
could  feel  the  cool,  smooth  sides  of  the 
fish  as  it  crowded  a  little  farther  in  away 
from  him.  Then,  putting  the  other  hand 
in  position  to  head  off  attempts  at  escape, 
he  suddenly  held  the  struggling,  gasping 


82  Sucker  Days. 

sucker  in  both  hands.  The  stones  were 
slippery,  and  in  an  effort  to  steady  himself 
the  boy  partly  lost  his  grip,  and  felt  the 
sucker  surely  working  out  of  his  hands 
— you  know  how  it  feels — and  despair- 
ingly tossed  it  toward  the  bank.  The 
sucker  landed  among  the  dry  pebbles, 
protruded  his  long,  white  nose,  and  opened 
his  round  mouth  in  surprise,  and  then  with 
one  ungainly  flop  threw  himself  into  the 
brook  again.  Why  can't  a  fish  ever  flop 
the  other  way  just  once  ?  The  boy  in 
confusion  could  not  see  which  way  the 
fish  went,  and  a  moment  later  there  was  a 
peculiar  sort  of  mist  in  the  boy's  eyes  that 
prevented  him  from  seeing  much  of  any- 
thing, and  the  round  drops,  welling  up 
straight  from  his  heart,  followed  each 
other  in  quick  succession  down  his  cheeks. 
Sorrowfully  he  trudged  up  to  the  school- 
house  and  made  wet  tracks  to  the  hard 
board  seat  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
That  seat  had  seen  quieter  moments,  when 
the  boy  had  time  to  "  fire  "  spit-balls  upon 
the  wall  overhead,  or  to  bore  converging 
holes  in  the  desk,  into  which  various 


Sucker  Days.  83 

luckless  flies  were  tucked  when  the  teacher 
was  looking  the  other  way.  Miss  Chap- 
man was  of  the  tall,  austere  type,  and  her 
glasses  presented  the  only  smooth  outlines 
in  her  mein.  She  must  have  been  young, 
for  her  moustache  was  not  markedly  visi- 
ble from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  but 
her  strong  right  arm  swung  with  a  free- 
dom that  we  were  accustomed  to  see  only 
when  the  best  of  woodchuck  skin  flail 
strings  gave  security  at  a  joint.  Usually 
she  took  off  her  glasses  before  descend- 
ing to  the  boy's  seat,  but  on  this  occasion 
there  was  too  much  necessity  for  prompt- 
ness in  attending  to  him,  and  they  rattled 
upon  the  floor  in  the  midst  of  a  medley 
of  ruler  whacks  and  sobs.  All  that  after- 
noon and  during  the  night  visions  of  the 
big  sucker  filled  the  boy's  brain  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  other  ideas,  and  at  the 
woodpile  at  home  he  unconsciously  made 
a  sudden  grab  for  the  biggest  stick  and 
scattered  the  armful  already  collected. 

Of  course  we  boys  all  rushed  off  to  the 
brook  next  day  at  recess,  and  while  Ned 
and  Tom  and  Joe  went  to  fishing  under 


84  Sucker  Days. 

the  stones  near  the  road,  the  other  boy 
followed  the  brook  down  into  the  pasture 
and  began  to  poke  under  rocks  in  all  of 
the  holes,  to  see  if  the  big  sucker  was  still 
in  that  part  of  the  stream.  All  at  once  it 
rushed  out  in  sight,  and  the  shouts  of  the 
boy  brought  the  others  on  a  run  as  fast  as 
they  could  come. 

"  Right  under  that  stone  he  is,  fellers, 
and  an  old  whopper,  too,  by  golly,"  said 
he.  "  I  'm  going  to  hold  on  to  him  this 
time,  you  bet."  Just  then  came  the  sound 
of  the  school  bell  across  the  fields.  It  is 
called  a  musical  sound,  but  somehow  or 
another  it  seems  to  a  boy  to  be  different 
from  the  voices  of  the  robins  and  the 
wood-thrushes.  Ruefully  the  boy  paused 
a  moment  and  listened,  then  reaching 
around  and  feeling  the  tender  parts  that 
had  not  quite  recovered  from  the  previous 
day's  reddening,  he  decided  that  they 
would  have  to  stand  one  more  ruling 
from  the  bench,  and  into  the  brook  he 
stepped.  His  hands  trembled  with  excite- 
ment as  they  went  under  the  water  and 
under  the  stone  and  felt  the  fins  of  the 


Sucker  Days.  85 

hiding  sucker,  but  with  a  decision  that 
brings  results  in  all  things  he  squeezed 
the  fish  in  a  good  double  grasp  and  car- 
ried it  so  far  out  in  the  meadow  grass 
that  it  left  all  hope  behind.  Was  n't  it 
a  beauty !  We  picked  it  up  and  let  it 
flounce  out  of  our  hands  a  dozen  times 
before  it  became  submissive. 

"How  will  you  trade  him  for  mine?" 
asked  Tom  Allen.  "  Oh,  but  that  one  of 
yours  ain't  anywheres  near  so  big  as  this 
one,"  said  the  boy.  "  No,"  said  Tom, 
"but  them  big  ones  is  all  innards  and  no 
meat.  Just  heft  mine  onct.  There  's 
twicet  as  much  meat  on  him."  So,  always 
ready  to  be  taken  advantage  of  in  a  bar- 
gain for  any  plausible  reason,  the  boy 
traded  the  great  big  sucker  for  Tom's 
smaller  one,  and  we  lugged  our  respective 
fish  almost  to  school  and  hid  them  under 
the  stone  wall.  It  is  unnecessary  to  refer 
to  our  experience  within  the  doors,  but 
our  aches  were  tempered  with  the  prospec- 
tive exultation  of  carrying  the  suckers 
home  after  school  was  out.  And  then 
an  unexpected  movement  of  the  boy's 


86  Sucker  Days. 

mind  suddenly  shifted  it  to  an  impulse 
to  give  his  fish  to  poor  forlorn  Uncle 
Bennett,  whose  bent  back  and  meagre 
rheumatic  legs  tried  all  day  long  and 
all  night  long  to  find  one  soft  spot  in 
the  lonely  cabin  down  by  the  blacksmith 
shop.  His  wife  dead,  his  only  son  a 
drunkard,  his  little  hoard  spent,  it  was 
with  a  bowed  head  that  he  accepted  a  bit 
of  help  from  the  town,  and  an  occasional 
gift  of  a  bushel  of  potatoes  or  a  peck  of 
turnips  from  some  prosperous  neighbor. 
He  could  not  go  to  the  poorhouse  over 
the  hill,  where  old  Sperry's  wife,  and  the 
blind  colored  cooper,  and  the  crazy  Dutch- 
man, and  Mr.  Bradley's  worn-out  hired 
man,  freed  from  the  care  of  providing  for 
the  immediate  necessities  of  life,  had  risen 
to  a  social  position  far  superior  to  that  of 
the  man  whose  pride  forced  him  flat 
against  the  earth.  His  poor  old  heavy 
heart  would  lift  for  the  moment  and  some- 
thing like  light  would  shine  through  his 
sad  blue  eyes  whenever  we  boys  went  in 
to  see  him,  carrying  from  home  a  kind 
word  and  a  batch  of  fallen  sponge-cake 


Sucker  Days.  87 

that  was  taken  out  of  the  oven  too  soon 
and  would  not  do  at  all  for  the  sewing 
society  on  Thursday  evening.  How  much 
better  to  give  a  sucker  to  Uncle  Bennett 
than  to  receive  almost  anything  from 
Heaven  one's  self.  He  should  have  the 
precious  fish  and  the  family  at  home  must 
depend  upon  the.  market  down  in  the  vil- 
lage— as  they  always  preferred  to  do. 
The  boy  laboriously  wrote  on  a  piece  of 
paper  torn  from  the  soiled  fly-leaf  of  his 
speller,  "lets  Givum  two  too  unkelbent," 
and  stealthily  passed  the  note  over  to 
Tom  Allen's  desk.  A  quick  nod  of  Tom's 
head  from  behind  his  "  joggerphy  "  showed 
that  an  enterprising  boy  who  could  de- 
fraud his  companion  because  that  was  one 
of  the  laws  of  trade,  was  nevertheless 
unable  to  resist  the  impulse  to  give  his 
plunder  to  Uncle  Bennett.  That  ap- 
peared to  Tom  a  matter  of  right  and 
wrong  in  which  he  was  governed  no  doubt 
by  the  laws  of  compensation,  because 
Uncle  Bennett  had  such  a  superlative  de- 
gree of  nothing  at  all. 

It  was  almost  four  o'clock.     Who  ever 


88  Sucker  Days. 

could  remember  the  hard  words  in  the 
speller  right  on  the  verge  of  four  o'clock 
and  freedom  and  good  deeds !  Miss 
Chapman  slowly  laid  down  the  book 
that  she  was  accustomed  to  hold  before 
her  face  as  a  sort  of  ambush  from  which 
she  surprised  new  scholars  who  thought 
that  she  was  reading.  The  little  brass 
desk-bell  tinkled  and  the  announcement 
was  made  that  school  was  dismissed,  ex- 
cepting for  the  two  boys  who  had  waded 
in  the  water,  and  they  must  stay  for 
fifteen  minutes  after  school.  One  by 
one  those  fifteen  rusty  minutes  hitched 
along  the  floor  of  time,  and  then  the  two 
impatient  boys,  waving  their  caps  in  the 
air,  bounced  out  of  the  doorway  and  hip- 
pety-hopped  over  to  the  stone  wall  for 
their  hidden  treasures.  Alas  for  the 
trustfulness  of  youth  !  The  old  gray  cat 
had  found  the  fish  and  had  dragged  them 
off  to  some  other  hiding-place, 


THE  EVENING  OF  AUG.  i,  1895. 

AN  Indian,  a  salmon,  a  syenite  rock. 
The  salmon  lies  upon  the  grizzly 
slope  of  syenite,  and  the  Indian,  fitting 
his  wet  moccasins  to  the  rough  foothold, 
rests  one  end  of  my  gaff  against  the 
silvery  scales  of  the  big  salmon  to  prevent 
him  from  sliding  back  into  his  roaring 
home. 

The  sun  is  setting,  and  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment the  rays  seem  to  warm  the  bleak 
hills  of  white  caribou  moss  and  the  dark 
gullies  of  stunted  black  spruce,  but  the 
warmth  is  in  the  color  only.  The  steel- 
gray  clouds  come  westward  from  the  ice- 
blocked  straits  of  Belle  Isle  with  a  fine 
bracing  air,  but  there  is  no  suggestion  of 
real  midsummer.  A  white-throated  spar- 
row among  the  wild  peas  pipes  loudly  to  a 
neighbor  up  among  the  chicoutai  berries 


90    The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

and  then  sweetly  and  clearly  the  spiritual 
notes  of  a  hermit  thrush  ring  out  farewells 
to  the  day  that  is  passing. 

The  salmon  has  never  known  any  other 
river  but  this  one.  His  mother  hid  the 
egg  securely  under  a  heap  of  clean  spark- 
ling sand  in  a  shallow  tributary  of  the 
river  away  up  on  the  great  Labrador 
plateau  one  day  in  October,  and  then 
hurried  back  to  the  sea  before  the  ice 
caught  her.  The  sheldrakes  and  wild 
geese  had  returned  in  the  springtime  be- 
fore the  little  salmon  had  worked  his  way 
out  of  the  egg  and  up  through  the  sand 
into  the  clear  water  of  the  brook.  Two 
years  he  spent  in  the  river  as  a  gay  parr, 
splashing  out  after  the  ephemeridae  on  the 
surface,  scooting  after  the  dodging  stickle- 
backs, and  slyly  waiting  for  the  small  eels 
to  venture  away  from  their  protecting 
stones.  Then  he  lost  his  scarlet  spots, 
and  coming  down  the  river  in  smolt  colors 
went  out  among  the  rocky  islands  in  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  where  sea  plants 
make  red  and  yellow  thickets  at  the  bottom. 
At  first  he  caught  snappy  crustaceans  and 


The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895.    91 

tender  sandlaunces,  and  found  such  an 
abundance  of  food  that  he  soon  grew  to 
proportions  which  enabled  him  to  grapple 
with  a  capelin  or  smelt.  By  the  end  of 
his  third  year  he  dared  to  rush  into  a 
scattering  school  of  herrings  and  select 
the  fattest  one  for  himself,  and,  as  a  trim 
grilse,  he  appeared  again  in  the  river, 
coming  up  with  his  older  anadromous 
relatives  on  their  migration.  He  did  not 
have  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  voracious  sea 
trout  now,  and  he  escaped  the  seals  easily 
because  they  chased  the  larger  salmon 
and  did  not  give  him  much  attention. 
He  felt  the  pride  of  a  mature  fish,  how- 
ever, and  a  superiority  over  his  sisters, 
who  needed  to  wait  in  the  sea  a  longer 
time  before  they  were  ready  to  accom- 
pany him  up  to  the  old  homestead  in 
summer. 

In  six  or  seven  years  he  became  a  won- 
derfully strong  salmon,  making  annual 
trips  up  the  river  and  fearing  nothing  but 
the  otters  and  the  bears  when  he  lay  in 
shallow  currents  at  rest.  The  osprey  and 
the  golden  eagle  occasionally  dropped 


92    The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

down  at  him  from  out  of  the  sky,  but  they 
stopped  when  they  were  near  enough  to 
see  how  swift  the  water  was  in  which  he 
rested  with  such  apparent  ease.  The  on- 
set of  the  hissing  chute  and  the  smother- 
ing white  water  of  the  exploding  falls  were 
to  him  nothing  more  than  a  challenge  to 
try  his  strength.  He  would  first  leap  into 
the  air  below  the  falls  and  take  a  good 
look  at  them,  for  they  could  kill  him  stone 
dead  in  an  instant  if  he  were  to  allow  it. 
After  looking  at  the  falls  he  would  run  up 
more  closely  and  hold  his  head  out  of  the 
confusing,  boiling  foam  for  an  inspection 
of  the  easiest-looking  place.  Then  he 
would  spring  six  feet  into  the  thunder, 
and  hurled  back  violently  with  injury  to 
his  dignity  he  would  gather  his  powers 
for  a  mighty  effort,  and  in  one  clear  pa- 
rabola of  twelve  feet  or  more  would  sail 
through  the  air  over  the  flying  water  at 
the  foot  of  the  falls  and  force  himself  up 
through  the  awful  current  to  a  resting- 
place  in  the  eddy  above. 

This  he  would  do  when  the  day  was 
bright  and  clear,  but  through  the  night 


The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895.    93 

and  on  dark  days  he  would  remain  quietly 
in  favorite  places  where  the  water  ran 
at  the  rate  of  about  two  miles  per  hour, 
over  pebbles  and  cobble-stones.  It  looked 
as  though  he  remained  in  the  open  cur- 
rent without  a  motion,  but  on  close  obser- 
vation one  could  see  that  his  nose  was 
behind  a  cobble-stone  large  enough  to 
make  a  little  sunken  eddy,  and  that  his 
tail  curved  a  bit  from  side  to  side.  After 
mounting  the  first  rapid  near  the  sea  he 
usually  spent  two  weeks  in  the  pool 
above,  and  then  on  ascending  the  second 
fall  he  remained  for  a  week  in  the  next 
pool,  and  in  that  way  he  proceeded  like 
any  experienced  traveller  who  has  learned 
how  to  enjoy  himself  and  find  comfort  on 
the  road.  When  he  first  went  into  the 
fresh  water  every  year  his  colors  were 
startlingly  silvery,  gleaming  in  the  light 
that  winnowed  down  through  the  crinkles 
of  swift  water.  Ten  days  later  his  back 
and  gill  covers  and  fins  began  to  become 
blackish,  arid  his  sides  were  a  trifle  less  sil- 
very. Two  months  later,  at  the  head- 
waters of  the  river,  his  colors  were 


94    The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

distinctly  black  and  reddish.  From  the 
first  day  of  his  entrance  into  the  river  the 
kipper  hook  on  his  under  jaw  began  to 
grow,  and  his  rounded  sides  became  flat- 
ter, because  he  did  not  eat  while  in  the 
river.  He  would  often  jump  at  a  flutter- 
ing miller  or  a  little  shiner  at  the  surface 
just  as  a  kitten  leaps  for  a  ball  but  that 
would  not  be  called  eating. 

Last  year  while  passing  through  the 
estuary  from  the  sea  he  was  gilled  in 
Monsieur  Jules's  net,  but  he  soon  thrashed 
himself  out  of  that  predicament,  leaving  a 
ring  mark  around  his  neck  where  the  net 
had  torn  away  the  scales.  Two  years  ago 
he  chose  the  wrong  spot  for  a  leap  at  the 
falls  and  was  thrown  back  over  the  rocks 
so  quickly  that  his  side  was  badly  torn 
and  one  pectoral  fin  was  split  lengthwise. 
So  back  he  went  down  river  and  into  the 
sea  until  the  wounds  were  healed,  knowing 
that  if  he  remained  in  fresh  water  sapro- 
legnia  would  grow  in  the  injured  tissues 
and  make  him  weak.  He  returned  to  the 
upper  waters  of  the  river  in  time  to  find  a 
mate  who  did  not  object  to  his  scars  any 


The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895.    95 

more  than  the  German  maiden  objects  to 
the  duel  marks  on  the  cheeks  of  her  lover  ; 
but  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  drive  away 
a  ridiculous  little  parr  and  two  or  three 
rivals,  one  of  which  locked  jaws  with  him 
and  did  not  let  go  until  he  had  damaged 
his  kipper  hook. 

This  year  the  scarred  old  veteran  came 
up  from  the  Gulf  three  weeks  ago,  but  he 
waited  in  brackish  water  below  the  first 
rapid  for  a  week  until  the  temperature  of 
the  river  had  risen  to  50°,  and  then  in  the 
first  pool  he  did  not  feel  much  like  jump- 
ing for  exercise  or  at  passing  flies  until 
the  water  was  several  degrees  warmer  yet. 
It  is  hard  for  a  salmon  to  keep  quiet  for 
a  very  long  time  though,  and  one  need 
not  stand  by  a  pool  many  minutes  to  learn 
if  salmon  are  there  or  not. 

^  I  did  not  care  particularly  to  catch  this 
fine  old  fish  just  now  because  we  had  had 
sport  enough  for  one  day.  First  I  hooked 
an  enormous  salmon  that  sulked  at  the 
bottom  for  two  hours,  in  spite  of  all  my 
efforts  to  move  him  ;  and  then  when  he 
was  beginning  to  tire,  the  hook  came  away 


96    The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

all  at  once,  and  so  easily  that  one  won- 
dered at  it  having  held  so  long.  Another 
salmon  had  given  me  a  violent  chase 
down  the  rapids  and  I  had  torn  my 
clothes,  lost  my  hat,  and  scratched  my 
hands  in  leaping  over  rocks  while  try- 
ing to  follow  him  ;  but  he  finally  ran  out 
all  of  1 20  yards  of  line,  whacked  my  rod 
straight  under  water,  and  broke  away. 
After  that  I  landed  two  large  salmon  and 
a  sea  trout.  No  one  would  crave  any 
more  physical  exertion  after  that  sort  of 
work,  and  so  Jo-mul  and  I  had  gone  back 
to  camp. 

We  were  sitting  at  the  edge  of  the  rocks 
in  front  of  camp  making  the  smelt  jump  at 
a  cast  of  small  flies,  while  Caribou  Charley 
cooked  the  young  murres  that  he  had 
condescended  to  collect  for  supper,  along 
with  a  pailful  of  cloudberries  and  hairy 
currants.  Several  smelt  would  dart  at 
the  flies  at  once,  and  I  told  Jo-mul  of  the 
common  saying  among  white  men  that 
salmon  fishing  spoiled  a  man  for  any  other 
sort  of  sport  with  the  rod,  and  asked  him 
if  we  had  not  many  and  many  a  time 


The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895.    97 

rigged  up  a  light  rod  and  gone  to  fishing 
for  smelt,  fork-tail  charrs,  whitefish,  sea 
trout,  or  brook  trout,  while  a  dozen  leap- 
ing salmon  were  in  sight.  Then  again, 
after  a  fine  salmon  had  been  brought  to 
gaff,  we  have  gone  down  the  bay  and  had 
no  end  of  fun  digging  clams  and  pulling 
lobsters  out  from  under  the  rocks,  or  we 
have  gone  up  to  deep  water  and  fished 
on  the  bottom  for  lake  trout  with  a  plain 
vulgar  hook  and  sinker,  when  salmon 
would  have  risen  to  almost  any  cast  of 
the  fly  in  the  pools.  No  !  I  am  suspi- 
cious of  the  color  of  the  blood  of  a  sports- 
man who  is  ruined  by  salmon  fishing. 
Nevertheless,  a  salmon  is  the  greatest 
prize  that  is  obtained  by  the  fisherman. 

While  we  sat  waiting  for  supper  an 
hour  ago  and  were  catching  the  smelts  in 
order  to  fill  in  all  chinks  of  time,  two  or 
three  fish  that  looked  like  ouananiche  be- 
gan to  leap  and  play  a  few  yards  out  in 
the  stream,  so  I  got  the  salmon  rod  out 
again  in  order  to  catch  one  of  them  for 
identification.  The  Jock  Scott  fly  was 
cast  gently  into  the  smooth  gliding  rapid 


98    The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

water  at  the  head  of  a  short  but  noisy 
chute,  and  when  the  fly  rounded  up  and 
rippled  the  water  at  the  end  of  a  straight- 
ened line  this  great  salmon  unexpectedly 
appeared.  He  advanced  close  up  to  the 
fly,  almost  touched  it  with  his  blunt  nose, 
stood  poised  for  a  moment  in  the  current, 
and  then  turned  away,  making  a  swirl 
that  boiled  the  water  up  in  a  smooth, 
round  dome  at  the  place  where  he  had 
been  an  instant  before.  He  was  given 
time  to  settle  back  to  his  resting-place, 
and  then  the  fly  went  out  to  search  for 
him  again.  This  time  he  came  with  a 
rush,  and  opening  a  great  mouth  that 
shut  the  fly  in  completely,  he  turned  to 
disappear  again  ;  but  feeling  the  hook 
and  the  tightening  line  he  leaped  eight 
feet  into  the  air,  shook  his  head  savagely, 
and  bending  his  body  into  a  bow  struck 
at  the  line  with  his  tail  while  high  in 
air.  The  water  splashed  to  the  shore  and 
splattered  the  rocks  as  he  splurged  under 
again,  and  then  with  the  speed  of  an  ex- 
press train  he  rushed  fifty  yards  out  into 
the  river  and  made  a  graceful  broad  jump 


The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895.    99 

of  fifteen  feet  over  the  surface.  Turning 
sharply  down  stream  he  shot  instantly 
through  the  chute,  stopping  to  whirl  once 
in  the  broken  water,  and  then  pulled  out 
a  hundred  yards  of  line  so  swiftly  that  it 
fairly  took  my  breath  away  before  I  could 
jump  over  the  rocks  and  follow  him  along 
the  shore.  Up  he  went  into  the  air  again 
and  then  back  into  the  current,  yanking 
his  head  furiously  back  and  forth  with 
regular  strokes.  His  next  move  was  to 
march  up  behind  a  rock  in  deep  water, 
where  he  sulked,  remaining  in  the  same 
place  for  ten  minutes,  and  giving  nervous 
twitches  on  the  line,  which  was  drawn  so 
tightly  in  the  water  that  it  hummed  a 
tune  in  G  minor,  and  cut  the  water  so 
that  a  little  transparent  sheet  an  inch  high 
stood  straight  up. 

In  thirty  minutes  the  salmon  had  be- 
come sufficiently  tired  to  allow  me  to 
guide  him  into  shallow  water  near  Jo-mul, 
who  struck  him  fairly  with  the  gaff  and 
lifted  him  out  upon  the  rock  at  his  feet. 
A  beautiful  fish  it  is,  and  one  that  re- 
quired a  pretty  good  knowledge  of  his 


ioo  The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

habits  in  order  to  take  him  out  of  the  ele- 
ment in  which  he  was  well  equipped  for 
methods  of  escape. 

As  for  Jo-mul,  who  stands  there  so 
erect  and  solemn  upon  the  rock  holding 
the  salmon  with  the  gaff,  he  too  has 
habits  and  a  life  history.  His  long  black 
hair  is  cut  evenly  around  at  the  level  of 
his  shoulders,  and  his  straight  thin  nose, 
high  cheek-bones,  and  dark  skin  mark  the 
man  whose  ancestors  were  perhaps  here 
with  the  other  indigenous  animals.  He  is 
not  at  all  like  a  white  man,  although  he  says 
that  he  can  speak  English.  I  asked  him 
if  he  had  ever  seen  a  moose  so  far  north 
and  he  replied,  "  Seen  um  be  markin'  on 
de  paper."  That  was  an  unusually  good 
and  long  answer  for  him.  As  a  rule  it  is 
necessary  to  ask  him  a  question  several 
times  before  he  makes  any  kind  of  an 
answer  in  Montagnais,  traders'  French, 
or  English.  He  is  not  morose,  but  like 
others  of  his  race  he  has  failed  to  develop 
the  bump  of  language.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  him  laugh  but  once,  and 
that  was  when  I  asked  him  to  cut  enough 


The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895.  101 

firewood  to  last  for  several  days.  It  was 
a  good  joke.  Nothing  appeals  to  an  In- 
dian's sense  of  the  ludicrous  like  the  idea 
of  laying  up  anything  in  advance.  He 
tries  to  imitate  Caribou  Charley  and  me 
in  some  things,  and  I  do  not  dare  to  leave 
my  tooth-brush  out  or  he  surely  would  try 
it.  He  still  prefers  to  lean  over  the  river 
Narcissus-like  when  parting  his  hair  in 
the  morning  instead  of  using  our  more 
civilized  mirror,  which  is  made  by  sinking 
a  rubber  coat-tail  in  a  pan  of  water. 

Every  year  in  July  Jo-mul  comes  down 
to  the  coast  and  disposes  of  his  canoe  load 
of  furs  to  some  trader.  A  fine  black  mink 
skin  is  worth  two  dollars,  so  for  that  the 
trader  gives  him  a  five-cent  pipe  on  which 
he  has  placed  the  value  of  two  dollars. 
His  skins  of  beaver,  otter,  fox,  marten, 
lynx,  fisher,  wolverine,  and  bear  are  traded 
off  for  pickles,  Florida  water,  gunpowder, 
tobacco,  and  the  simplest  necessaries  in 
the  way  of  clothing  and  provisions,  but 
usually  to  pay  the  last  year's  debt ;  and 
the  things  that  he  wants  are  advanced  to 
him,  for  he  is  known  as  an  honest  Indian, 


102  The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

That  means  that  he  has  learned  that  ad- 
vances will  not  be  made  unless  debts  are 
paid.  An  Indian  is  apt  to  be  relatively 
honest.  Jo-mul  would  probably  not  steal 
a  gold  watch  because  he  does  not  know 
what  it  is  good  for,  but  it  would  not  be 
safe  to  leave  a  pound  of  pork  near  him. 
He  would  cross  himself  with  one  hand 
while  purloining  the  pork  with  the  other, 
for  the  missions  have  not  been  without 
their  influence  in  this  region. 

Jo-mul  has  a  wife  and  two  children,  but 
his  ideas  of  family  are  not  troublesome, 
and  he  would  not  feel  so  very  badly  if 
some  young  brave  were  to  run  off  with 
his  comely  daughter  before  marriage, 
especially  if  the  young  brave  could  furnish 
food  enough  and  would  give  the  daughter 
a  bright  red  ribbon  or  two.  After  Jo-mul 
has  traded  off  his  furs  and  has  lain  about* 
camp  for  four  or  five  weeks  the  family 
start  off  on  their  annual  trip  into  the  in- 
terior, to  come  down  the  river  in  the 
following  year  just  as  the  salmon  are 
going  up.  Jo-mul  has  few  motives  or  am- 
bitions beyond  those  of  any  of  the  other 


The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895.  103 

large  animals  of  this  latitude.  He  would 
never  think  of  making  a  pet  of  any  wild 
animal.  He  would  not  live  a  moral  life 
for  its  own  reward,  because  there  would 
be  some  difficulty  in  explaining  to  him 
the  nature  of  that  reward.  He  would  not 
be  content  with  four  meals  a  day  if  he 
could  get  eight,  and  he  does  not  feel  like 
working  when  he  is  full  of  food  and  wants 
to  sleep. 

He  seems  to  live  for  the  purpose  of 
completing  a  round  of  life.  One  round 
begins  with  the  water  bacteria  which  are 
eaten  by  infusoria,  which  are  eaten  by 
mollusks,  which  are  eaten  by  fish,  which 
are  eaten  by  Jo-mul,  who  will  be  eaten  by 
bacteria  in  turn  if  he  is  not  careful  in 
shooting  the  rapids.  Another  round  be- 
gins with  the  land  plants,  which  are  eaten 
by  the  caribou,  which  are  eaten  by  Jo-mul, 
who  will  be  eaten  by  the  bacteria  and 
turned  over  to  the  land  plants  again  if  he 
is  careful  about  shooting  the  rapids.  Thus 
will  Jo-mul  fill  his  place  in  the  economy 
of  nature,  and  apparently  there  is  no  other 
mission  for  him  on  earth. 


104     The  Evening  of  Aug.  i,  1895. 

The  syenite  rock  is  about  the  only  thing 
near  camp  which  has  no  habits.  It  lies 
there  partly  submerged  beneath  the  sullen 
current.  It  is  waiting. 


IN    THE    SANDY    END    OF 

A   CONNECTICUT 

TOWNSHIP. 

"  r  I  "HAT  nigh  mare  is  a  cribber,  is  n't 

_L       slie,  Jim  ? 

"  Cribber  ?  Why  goddlemitey,  yes. 
All  the  hosses  up  this  way  is  cribbers  ; 
or  most  on  'em  is,  cause  the  air  is  so  gol 
darned  good  up  here  that  they  want  to 
suck  'emselves  full  of  it  and  keep  sucked 
full,  besides  what  they  kin  git  into  their 
innards  reg'lar  ways.  Say  !  you  'd  better 
come  up  here  to  stay  fer  a  spell  and  you  'd 
git  as  healthy  as  a  hoss.  Whoa  thar, 
Jinny!  Whoa  thar,  Lije !  Git  on  here 
quick,  you  fellers.  Whoa,  Lijah  !  Aint 
this  a  mornin'  fer  trout,  though  ?  Sling 
them  baskets  and  poles  in  and  git  fixed  as 
soon  's  you  kin." 

105 


io6         In  the  Sandy  End  of 

"  Little  bit  frisky  this  morning,  are  n't 
they,  Jim?" 

"  Stiddy  thar,  Jinny  !  Oh,  that 's  noth- 
in'.  I  '11  run  'em  up  Bald  Hill  lickety 
split  and  they  '11  stand  while  we  're  fishin' 
after  that.  Say !  Look  here !  Don't 
let  yer  feet  swing  too  fur  from  the  front 
of  the  waggin  so  's  to  hit  Jinny's  legs." 

"  Is  she  a  kicker,  Jim  ?" 

"Kicker?  Well,  no;  not  zactly,  'less 
you  begin  it  yerself.  Be  a  little  keerful, 
though.  Oh,  never  mind  'bout  movin' 
back.  Stay  whar  you  be.  Don't  get 
skeered.  She  won't  kick  'less  she's 
s'prised.  I  've  only  jist  got  her,  and  I  '11 
treat  her  kinder  kind,  and  bimeby  she 
won't  never  kick.  Git  up,  Jinny  !" 

Jim  accompanied  the  injunction  with  a 
cobble-stone  which  he  pulled  out  of  his 
side  pocket,  striking  the  mare  between 
the  ears. 

"Git  up!" 

Another  stone  from  the  side  pocket  hit 
her  on  the  neck. 

"  Why  do  you  do  that,  Jim  ?  Why 
don't  you  use  your  whip  ? " 


A  Connecticut  Township.      107 

"  Whip  !  Can't  use  no  whip  on  her. 
I  jist  carry  along  a  pocket  full  of  stuns 
and  tetch  her  up  ahead  a  leetle.  That  's 
whar  she  needs  it.  Don't  need  no  stir- 
rin'  up  behind.  Too  gol  darned  smart 
there  aready." 

"  Where  did  you  buy  her,  Jim?" 

"  Buy  her  ?  I  haint  never  bought  no 
hosses.  Aint  no  use  a-buyin'  'em.  Traded. 
Allers  traded !  Leastways,  most  allers 
traded.  They  's  men  that  '11  pay  a  hun- 
dred dollars  cash  down  fer  a  hoss,  but 
them  folks  can't  get  ahead  none.  Bought 
my  fust  hoss,  come  to  think.  I  was  down 
to  Stony  Creek  and  they  was  a-loadin'  a 
schooner  fer  York,  and  the  feelin'  come 
over  me  all  to  once  that  I  wanted  to  go 
fur  a  travel,  and  I  says  to  the  cap'n,  says  I  : 

"  '  Cap'n,  what  '11  you  take  to  let  me  go 
to  York  with  you  ?' 

"'Come  on,  Jim,'  says  he,  'and  help 
me  load  up  and  I  '11  take  you  down  and 
back  if  you  '11  help  both  ways.' 

"  That 's  how  I  got  my  start.  Kinder 
curis,  aint  it,  how  a  feller  '11  git  a  start  from 
a  feelin'  that  comes  over  him  and  he  's  in  a 


io8         In  the  Sandy  End  of 

handy  spot  fur  the  feelin'.  Well,  we  got 
down  to  York,  and  one  day  while  he  was 
a-waitin'  I  come  to  a  hoss-car  track  in  the 
road,  and  bein'  kinder  curis,  I  follered  it 
up  and  bimeby  I  come  to  a  big  stable  and 
the  gol  dumbedest  pile  of  horses  that  ever 
you  seen.  Bimeby  they  onhitched  a  hoss 
that  come  in  kinder  lame  and  dumpish, 
and  the  hoss  doctor  he  looked  him  over 
and  he  says  to  the  boss,  says  he  : 

"  '  Sudden  attack  of  spilin'-men-an- 
cheat-us.  Hoss  busted/  says  he. 

"  Then  they  went  away,  and  I  histed 
up  that  hoss's  off  hind  leg  and  I  seen  that 
ere  spilin'-cheat-us  lodged  in  under  the 
shoe,  and  it  wa'n't  no  bigger  'n  a  robin's 
egg.  I  did  n't  pry  it  out  just  then,  but  I 
kinder  waited  round,  and  bimeby  I  went 
up  to  the  boss  and  I  says  : 

"  '  What  '11  you  take  fer  that  hoss  ? ' 

"  '  Take  fifty,'  says  he,  thinkin'  he  was 
cheatin'  me. 

"  Them  city  fellers  '11  cheat  you  quick- 
er 'n  a  wink.  Nothin'  agin  you  fellers, 
'cause  you  aint  thar  now. 

"  '  Give  you  five,'  says  I. 


A  Connecticut  Township.      109 

"  '  Twenty-five,'  says  he. 

"  '  Six,'  says  I. 

"  '  Give  me  eight  and  take  him/  says  he. 

"  So  I  give  him  eight  and  had  three 
dollars  left  in  my  pocket.  Made  it  burnin' 
charcoal  summer  before,  and  was  lookin' 
fer  a  chance  to  speckerlate,  never  thinkin' 
't  would  come  unexpected  like  that.  Well, 
when  I  got  down  the  road  I  pried  out  that 
'ere  cheat-us  and  got  the  hoss  aboard  the 
schooner  and  got  him  up  here,  and  from 
that  start  I  've  been  tradin'  and  tradin' 
and  I  've  had  lots  of  hosses  and  waggins 
and  harnesses,  besides  a  purty  good  livin'.' 

"  Ever  get  any  bad  horses,  Jim  ?" 

"  Bad  uns?     Why,  no,  not  r-e-e-1  bad." 

"  How  did  the  dashboard  get  knocked 
out  of  the  buggy  up  at  the  house  ?  " 

"  Kicked  out,  I  s'pose  ! " 

"Bad  horse?" 

"  No  ;  not  r-e-e-1  bad  !  Can't  remem- 
ber jest  which  one  it  was.  Long  time 
ago." 

"  What  did  you  feed  the  horse,  on  board 
the  schooner?" 

"Hay!" 


no         In  the  Sandy  End  of 

"  Where  did  you  get  hay  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  was  a  lot  of  it  on  the  dock 
all  done  up  fancy.  Good  hay  though. 
Smelt  of  it." 

"Whose  hay  was  it?" 

"  Dunno  !" 

"  I  wish  we  could  fish  the  old  Howell 
brook  this  morning,  Jim  ;  but  they  say 
that  a  club  has  bought  rights  and  posted 
it.  How  do  you  like  that  sort  of  thing 
here  in  this  part  of  the  country?" 

"  Like  it  ?  Why,  fust  rate.  Ketched 
bigger  trout  and  more  of  'em  than  ever 
before." 

"  But  don't  you  ever  run  across  the 
watchman  ?  " 

"  Oh,  lordy,  yes !  Run  acrost  him 
more  'n  forty  times." 

"  But  did  n't  he  stop  you  ?" 

"  Stop  me?" — and  Jim's  voice  sounded 
like  the  sudden  breaking  of  a  bed  slat — 
"Stop  me?  Why,  no.  He  knows  I  kin 
lick  him  quicker  'n  lightnin'.  Allers  licked 
him  at  school  when  we  was  boys.  But 
I  Ve  got  a  brook  all  posted  for  you  fel- 
lers. Three  miles  on  it." 


A  Connecticut  Township.      1 1 1 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  you  owned  so 
much  land,  Jim." 

"  I  don't  own  none  o'  that  land,"  said 
Jim  ;  "  but  you  see  it  's  this  way.  Them 
club  fellers  got  a  notion  of  comin'  over 
to  this  brook,  so  I  went  and  stuck  up  a 
lot  of  signs." 

"  But  how  about  the  owners?" 

"  Well,  you  see  how  it  is  ;  the  land  up 
here  's  mortgaged  'way  up,  and  the  men 
what  's  on  the  farms  thinks  that  the  mort- 
gagers put  up  them  signs,  and  the  mort- 
gagers thinks  that  the  men  what 's  on  the 
farms  put  'em  up,  and  bein'  a  leetle  skeered 
of  each  other,  they  don't  ask  no  questions." 

"  So  you  did  not  have  to  pay  any- 
thing?" 

"  No  ;  nothin'.  They  aint  no  money  up 
this  way  to  pay  for  things  nohow,  so  we 
hev  to  do  the  best  we  kin  without  money. 
Money  aint  nec'ssary  fer  folks  with  heads 
on  'em.  It  's  fer  dudes.  Nothin'  agin 
you  fellers  —  cause  —  cause  —  praps  you 
haint  got  much  on  it.  They  was  a  feller 
up  here  had  two  hundred  and  forty-six 
dollars  saved  up,  burnin'  charcoal,  and  he 


ii2         In  the  Sandy  End  of 

was  awful  skeered  that  some  un  would 
ketch  him  and  git  it — wuss  'n  a  mink  with 
a  black  hide — and  so  he  slept  over  in  that 
charcoal  hut  over  yender — 'way  from 
folks." 

"Did  they  find  him,  Jim?" 
"Yep!"  ' 
"  Get  his  money?" 
"Yep!     Killed  him." 
"  Was  it  known  who  did  it  ?  " 
"  Yep  !     Seen  the  feller  what  done  it 
down  to  the  railroad  station  t'other  day." 
"  But  did  n't  they  arrest  him  ?" 
"  Oh,  yep  !    Took  him  over  to  Hartford 
and   tried   him    fer  it.     Could  n't  prove 
nothin',  cause  he  was  jest  that   fool    fer 
luck,  that  they  wa'  n't  nobody  lookin'  on 
when    he   done    it,   so    he   was   'quitted. 
When   I   seen   him  t'other  day  down  to 
the  station,   I  walked   up  to  him  and  I 
says,  says  I : 

"  '  Gabe,  you  know  gol  darned  well  that 
you  was  the  feller  that  killed  Mart.' " 
"  What  did  he  say  to  that,  Jim  ?  " 
"  Oh,  he  says,  '  Git  out,'  says  he,  and 
poked  me  in  the  ribs  with  his  thumb.     He 


A  Connecticut  Township.     113 

knows  me  fust  rate,  you  know.  Wish 
you  fellers  'd  go  up  to  Hall's  pond  some 
day  and  ketch  some  of  them  black  bass 
that  was  put  in  up  there." 

"  Have  you  tried  them,  Jim  ?  " 

"  Yep  !  Tried  'em  with  that  purty  little 
trout  pole  you  give  me  three  years  ago." 

"Catch  any?" 

"Dunno!" 

"A  man  usually  knows  whether  he  has 
caught  a  bass  or  not." 

"  Well,  it 's  this  way.  You  see  I  put  on 
a  frog  and  hove  him  out  by  a  good-lookin' 
rock,  and  all  to  oncet  they  was  a  yell  of  a 
yank,  and  I  pulled  my  all  firedest,  and  the 
bass  he  pulled  his  all  firedest,  and  bimeby 
somethin  busted,  and  I  haint  got  that 
purty  leetle  pole  now.  Next  time  I  go 
bassin'  I  '11  take  along  a  bean  pole,  and  a 
purty  gol  darned  stubbed  one  at  that." 

"  We  will  write  to  you  if  we  find  that 
we  can  come  up  again  this  spring  for  the 
bass,  Jim." 

"  'T  won't  do  no  good  to  write." 

-Why  not?" 

"Cause  old  Hank,  the  postmaster,  he  's 


ii4         In  the  Sandy  End  of 

got  a  grudge  agin  me.  Last  year  he  sent 
word  over  they  was  a  letter  fer  me  to  the 
post-office,  and  said  he  would  n't  give  it  to 
me  till  I  licked  him  fer  it.  He  would  n't 
let  me  have  it  fer  two  weeks  just  to  tan- 
terlize  me,  but  I  found  out  what  was  in  it, 
cause  his  woman  she  opened  it  and  told 
some  of  my  folks,  so  he  wa'n't  so  gol 
darned  smart  as  he  thought  he  was." 

vr  TF  vr  •!•  sp  H* 

"Guess  I  '11  hitch  up  Syb  to  take  you 
fellers  down  to  the  station  this  mornin'. 
Sorry  you  can't  stay  and  git  another  big 
mess  like  yest'day.  Like  to  hev  you 
round.  Thar  's  Mary,  she  goes  and  slicks 
up  when  you  're  round  jest  like  when  I 
was  courtin'  her.  They 's  lots  of  trout 
too.  Why,  I  ketched  one  over  by  Barnes's 
t'  other  day  that  weighed  a  pound  and  a 
half.  Pound  an'  a  half,  wa'n't  it,  Mary  ?  " 

"Two  pound,  plumb,  James." 

"  And  then  up  there  to  the  hog  hole  I 
ketched,  1'e's  see,  't  was  some  thirty-odd, 
wa'n't  it,  Mary?" 

"  Forty-eight,  James."  (Loyalty,  thy 
name  is  woman  !) 


A  Connecticut  Township.      115 

"  Get  in,  boys.  Springs  a  leetle  weak 
for  three,  but  Syb  don't  mind  if  anything 
busts." 

"  That 's  a  pretty  mare,  Jim,  where  did 
you  get  her?" 

"Traded!  Traded  with  a  feller  over 
to  Madison  when  she  was  a  colt.  Aint 
she  a  beaut  ?  " 

"  What  does  the  name  Syb  stand  for, 
Jim?" 

"Sybil!" 

"  How  in  the  name  of  goodness  did  you 
ever  come  to  name  a  colt  Sybil  ?" 

"  Sybil  ?  Why,  that  was  the  name  of 
the  gal  of  the  feller  I  got  the  colt  of. 
Sech  a  gol  darned  purty  gal,  I  named 
the  colt  after  her,  knowin'  it  must  grow 
up  beautiful  with  sech  a  name." 

"  Do  you  know  what  a  sibyl  is,  Jim  ?" 

"  No.  It  must  be  somethin'  too  gol 
darned  sweet  and  beautiful  fer  these  parts, 
'ceptin'  as  I  've  got  it  in  that  mare." 

Sybil  was  really  a  most  beautiful  and 
intelligent  little  mare,  and  Jim  had  made 
her  his  pet.  The  tenderness  that  his 
knotty  hands  displayed  in  managing  her 


n6         In  the  Sandy  End  of 

and  the  soft  voice  in  which  he  spoke  to 
her  were  very  touching,  and  she,  like  a 
spoiled  girl,  did  just  as  she  pleased,  but 
with  the  evident  intention  of  reciprocating 
Jim's  affection.  She  wore  no  blinders  and 
went  along  the  sandy  road  at  any  gait 
that  happened  to  please  her  for  the  mo- 
ment. The  little  mare  would  leisurely  jog 
off  to  one  side  of  the  road  to  keep  in  the 
shade  of  the  maples,  and  then  deliberately 
cross  over  to  trot  in  the  shade  of  the  but- 
ter-nuts on  the  other  side,  if  that  was  the 
better  side.  She  threw  her  head  around 
over  her  shoulder  and  looked  straight  at 
Jim  when  he  spoke  to  her,  meanwhile  not 
changing  her  gait.  She  stopped  a  moment 
to  rub  noses  with  a  cow  near  the  road  and 
then  went  on  again  without  command. 
Passing  an  old  stone  wall,  Syb  stopped  so 
quickly  that  we  were  almost  pitched  out, 
and  with  ears  pricked  up  she  reached  her 
head  over  the  fence  to  look  at  something. 

"What  is  it,  Jim?"  I  asked. 

"  Woodchuck  rustlin'  in  the  leaves,  I 
guess.  [Standing  up  to  look.]  Yep ! 
woodchuck  !  G'  long,  Syb  !  " 


A  Connecticut  Township.      117 

"  What  will  you  take  for  that  mare, 
Jim!" 

"  Take  fer  her  ?  No,  sir-e-e.  She  aint 
to  sell.  That  's  talkin*  'bout  the  soul,  or 
leastways  as  near  as  I  ever  git  to  it. 
G'  long,  darlin' ! " 


A  DAY  WITH  THE  GROUSE. 

ON  one  of  those  clean,  northerly, 
transparent  November  mornings, 
when  the  elfin  frost  sketchers  had  left  the 
tops  of  the  kitchen  window-panes  suffi- 
ciently clear  to  give  an  impressionist  effect 
of  yellow  sassafras  leaves  in  the  yard  and 
embers  of  autumn  over  beyond  upon  the 
mountain  side,  John  and  I  moved  our 
creaky  old-fashioned  chairs  up  to  the 
farm-house  table  and  fortified  ourselves 
for  the  prospective  hunt  with  hot  buck- 
wheat cakes  and  sausage  gravy,  with 
home-made  sausages  that  had  spluttered 
and  burst  in  the  frying-pan  and  then 
turned  all  crunchy  where  their  contents 
had  quickly  browned,  and  finally,  with  a 
warmer  of  coffee  containing  blobs  of  real 
cream  and  doubtful  sugar. 

We  were  clad  in  stout  canvas  hunting 
1x8 


A  Day  with  the  Grouse.       119 

suits,  flannel  shirts,  thick  hob-nailed  bro- 
gans,  and  corduroy  caps  ;  and  if  any  one 
doubted  our  intentions  for  the  day  they 
should  have  seen  Don  and  Belle,  the  two 
setters,  as  they  rapped  the  table  legs  with 
their  tails,  and  poking  their  heads  into 
our  laps  with  impatient  whines  looked  up 
with  that  intense  expression  that  one  sees 
when  the  dog  realizes  that  his  master  is 
all  ready  for  a  hunt.  Honest  old  Fog- 
horn, the  hound,  sat  in  droop-eared  dig- 
nity with  bowed  head  near  the  stove, 
looking  at  us  occasionally  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  eyes  and  hoping  that  he 
would  be  invited  to  follow,  but  knowing 
full  well  that  when  we  were  out  after 
grouse  it  was  his  day  to  remain  at  home. 
One  who  has  not  lived  and  loved  with 
well-bred  dogs  cannot  appreciate  their 
keen  perceptions  and  their  quick  divina- 
tion of  many  of  the  master's  thoughts  and 
intentions.  The  ordinary  observer  would 
have  said  that  Foghorn  did  not  care  to 
go  with  us  on  that  day,  and  that  the  other 
dogs  were  wistful  because  such  was  their 
habit,  but  not  a  word  had  been  spoken 


120      A  Day  with  the  Grouse. 

to  them  and  they  all  judged  of  our  plans 
for  the  day  from  something  in  our  man- 
ner that  the  gift  had  not  been  given  us 
to  realize  ourselves.  Dogs  seem  to  see 
their  masters'  thoughts,  and  their  de- 
ductions are  all  made  while  the  phi- 
losopher is  waiting  for  something  more 
definite  ;  and  although  the  quickness  of 
their  conclusions  is  antagonistic  to  good 
analyses  of  our  motives,  they  turn  at 
each  limitation  of  their  understanding  to 
a  friendly  supposition,  and  it  is  with  a 
wag  of  the  tail  instead  of  a  growl  that 
they  await  further  information.  I  re- 
spectfully refer  philosophers  to  the  dogs. 
We  were  not  out  of  the  door  before 
Don  and  Belle  had  bounced  through  ahead 
of  us,  and  the  frightened  hens  about  the 
stone  steps  ran  and  flew  ca-dark-ut-ing  in 
great  confusion  back  to  the  barnyard  and 
over  the  fence  into  the  orchard.  A  chilly 
crow  unhunched  himself  from  a  frosty  rail 
and  flopped  heavily  along  over  the  fields 
of  corn-shocks  and  ungathered  pumpkins, 
and  out  of  the  stiff  frozen  grass  fluttered 
a  few  migrating  sparrows  as  we  rustled 


A  Day  with  the  Grouse.       121 

noisily  along  through  the  windrows  of 
dead  leaves  in  the  path.  High  up  on  the 
hill-tops  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to 
mingle  with  the  few  brilliant  leaves  that 
still  clung  to  the  maples,  and  down  in 
the  valley  a  line  of  haze  above  the  dark 
pines  marked  the  course  of  the  stream 
that  had  been  so  interesting  to  us  in  the 
trout  season.  It  was  a  rough  climb 
through  the  woods  to  the  upper  grounds 
where  we  intended  to  hunt,  and  the  air 
was  provocative  of  such  energetic  move- 
ments that  we  were  in  a  glow  when  the 
high  levels  and  the  morning  sunshine  were 
reached.  Away  to  the  right  of  us  stretched 
a  series  of  beech  and  chestnut  ridges,  with 
many  acres  of  thick  pines  and  hemlocks, 
while  the  edges  of  the  woodland  were 
lined  with  brush-lots  of  young  poplars, 
birches,  sumacs,  and  witch  hazel  ;  patches 
of  reddish  buckwheat  stubble  here  and 
there  adjoined  the  saplings.  To  the 
hunter's  eye  buckwheat  stubble  is  the 
finishing  touch  of  beauty  in  a  landscape. 
Festoons  of  grape-vines  hung  from  the 
hornbeams  in  the  gullies,  and  the  ground 


122      A  Day  with  the  Grouse. 

in  many  places  was  thickly  carpeted  with 
wintergreens  and  princess  pine.  In  the 
debris  of  the  very  first  crumbling  log  we 
found  a  group  of  four  wallow  holes  and  a 
loose  grouse-feather  that  looked  as  though 
it  had  been  recently  shaken  out.  Neither 
Don  nor  Belle  made  any  signs  of  game 
just  there,  but  they  ranged  eagerly  back 
and  forth  to  the  loose  heaps  of  brush, 
through  clumps  of  sapling  pines  and  along 
the  stump  fence,  until  the  rapid  wagging 
of  Don's  tail  as  he  hesitated  for  a  moment 
in  the  cart-path  showed  that  a  grouse  had 
been  along  there  that  morning.  For 
several  minutes  Don  was  busy  in  trying 
to  determine  the  direction  of  the  trail,  but 
gradually  becoming  convinced  he  started 
off  cautiously  through  the  scrubby  oak 
bushes  with  elevated  nose  and  swinging 
tail.  We  could  see  his  nostrils  dilate  and 
hear  him  snuffing,  as  with  half-closed  eyes 
his  every  energy  seemed  concentrated  in 
the  delicate  effort  of  catching  the  floating 
scent.  How  lightly  he  stepped  as  he  led 
us  off  toward  a  fallen  tree-top  !  And  then 
he  began  to  grow  stiff-legged,  and  stopped. 


A  Day  with  the  Grouse.       123 

His  tail  straight  out  :  every  muscle  rigid  : 
and  his  right  foot  lifted  from  the  ground. 
Belle,  seeing  that  he  had  found  a  bird, 
bounded  up  so  hurriedly  that  the  grouse 
rushed  out  and  disappeared  behind  a  pine 
before  we  could  shoot.  Out  from  under 
a  scrub-oak  went  another  grouse,  and 
neither  of  the  guns  happened  to  be  ready, 
It  was  necessary  to  call  Belle  in  and 
scold  her  for  being  so  careless,  and  her 
drooping  ears  and  tail  showed  that  her 
feelings  were  hurt  more  than  they  would 
have  been  if  we  had  punished  her.  The 
direction  that  one  of  the  birds  had  taken 
led  us  out  to  a  sumac  thicket  on  a  knoll. 
Both  dogs  were  making  signs  of  game  and 
trying  to  locate  the  birds,  when  suddenly 
out  of  the  ferns  at  my  very  feet  burst  a 
great  gray  cock  grouse  and  sprang  whir- 
ring into  the  air,  shaking  the  saplings  with 
his  wings  and  whisking  a  circle  of  loose 
dead  leaves  into  the  air  of  his  wake. 
The  instant  that  the  gun-stock  struck  my 
shoulder  and  the  trigger  was  simultane- 
ously and  intuitively  pulled,  the  feath- 
ers flew  in  a  puff,  the  powerful  bird 


124      A  Day  with  the  Grouse. 

dropped  headlong  through  a  thorn-bush, 
and  struck  the  ground  with  a  thump, 
leaving  a  few  loose  feathers  hanging 
lightly  among  the  twigs,  while  dried  thorn- 
leaves  rattled  down  from  limb  to  limb  as 
they  followed  the  bird.  The  empty  shell 
in  the  gun  was  quickly  replaced  by  a 
loaded  one  and  Don  was  given  the  order 
to  fetch.  How  proudly  he  came  trotting 
toward  us,  tossing  the  prize  upward  in 
order  to  get  a  better  hold  as  he  ran,  and 
at  the  same  time  being  careful  not  to  muss 
the  feathers.  His  eyes  were  not  for  a 
moment  taken  from  the  limp  grouse  in 
my  hand  until  its  tail  had  disappeared  in 
the  capacious  hunting-coat  pocket. 

Along  the  edge  of  a  buckwheat  stubble 
both  dogs  worked  ambitiously  back  and 
forth,  following  first  one  trail  and  then 
another  until  we  were  convinced  that  a 
whole  covey  of  grouse  had  been  gleaning 
there  and  that  their  tracks  were  so  inter- 
mingled that  the  dogs  had  a  difficult  riddle 
to  solve.  We  were  making  a  wide  detour 
of  the  field  when  it  was  noticed  all  at  once 
that  Belle  was  standing  on  a  "  dead  point " 


A  Day  with  the  Grouse.       125 

at  a  small  wisp  of  foxtail  grass  and  rag- 
weeds, and  Don  was  a  few  yards  away  back- 
ing her.  The  idea  that  a  whole  big  grouse 
could  hide  in  such  cover  without  being 
visible  seemed  ridiculous,  but  we  had  en- 
tire confidence  in  the  two  mute  authorities 
standing  there  so  motionless  in  the  stub- 
ble, and  as  I  walked  up  to  Don  a  grouse 
sprang  like  a  new  revelation  out  of  the 
wisp  and  started  off  with  plenty  of  room 
to  gain  all  needful  headway.  The  first 
charge  of  shot  loosened  a  couple  of  wing 
feathers  and  the  second  shot  sent  the  bird 
bounding  all  in  a  bunch  among  the  seedy 
ragweeds.  Just  then  two  more  clucking 
and  squealing  grouse  with  spread  tails  and 
half-opened  wings  unexpectedly  appeared 
and  ran  straight  toward  me,  mounting  on 
wing  so  close  that  I  could  almost  have 
touched  them  with  the  gun.  Another  one 
jumped  from  the  wisp  straight  up  high 
into  the  air,  and  a  moment  later  two  red 
fellows  whirred  away  side  by  side  low  over 
the  field.  A  volcano  and  earthquake  of 
grouse !  There  I  stood  with  unloaded 
gun  and  trying  so  hurriedly  to  get  two 


126      A  Day  with  the  Grouse. 

cartridges  into  the  breech  that  they  would 
not  have  gone  into  a  peck  measure  just 
then.  If  my  efforts  at  being  wise  had 
ever  been  so  severe  and  so  energetic  as 
my  efforts  to  get  those  cartridges  into  the 
breech  in  time  for  a  shot,  the  nineteenth 
century  would  have  had  its  Solomon. 

One  of  the  birds  scudding  down  the 
wind  past  John  suddenly  folded  itself  up 
in  mid  air,  and  a  long  shot  at  another  so 
surprised  the  bird  that  it  wheeled  and 
alighted  in  a  hemlock  at  the  edge  of  the 
field. 

In  brush  lot  and  in  bark  slashing  and 
from  hill-top  to  swale  we  found  grouse  that 
day,  and  when  in  the  long  shadows  of  the 
thin  sunlight  on  a  cold-waxing  autumn 
evening  we  reached  the  farm-house  and 
spread  our  birds  out  upon  the  woodshed 
floor,  the  dogs,  with  ears  full  of  burrs  and 
memories  replete  with  good  deeds,  curled 
up  contentedly  behind  the  stove  for  the 
night. 

The  cider  in  the  blue  pitcher  that  was 
set  upon  the  table  after  supper  helped  to 
strengthen  many  of  the  weak  points  in  the 


A  Day  with  the  Grouse.       127 

yarns  of  the  old  settler  who  had  dropped 
in  to  tell  us  of  the  three  coons  that  he  had 
found  in  one  tree  that  day,  and  Grandad 
Bradtree,  leaning  his  sunken  cheek  on  the 
trembling  hand  that  balanced  the  cane 
against  the  arm-chair,  was  encouraged  to 
tell  again  such  stories  of  his  exploits  in 
the  good  old  days  as  are  usually  reserved 
for  grandchildren  and  withheld  from  con- 
temporaries. 

I  know  the  beds  of  Eastern  princes,  and 
the  luxurious  couches  of  Occidental  pluto- 
crats, but  under  the  rafters  of  a  farm-house 
in  western  New  York,  where  the  mud 
wasp's  nest  answers  for  a  Rembrandt  and 
the  cobweb  takes  the  place  of  a  Murillo, 
there  is  a  feather  bed  into  which  the 
hunter  who  has  killed  a  dozen  ruffed 
grouse  in  the  day  softly  sinks  until  his 
every  inch  is  soothed  and  fitted,  and  set- 
tling down  and  farther  down  into  sweet 
unconsciousness,  while  the  screech  owl  is 
calling  from  the  moonlit  oak  and  frost 
is  falling  upon  the  asters,  stocks  may 
fluctuate  and  panic  seize  the  town,  but 
there  is  one  man  who  is  in  peace. 


NEPIGON     AND    SAGUENAY 
RIVERS. 

A  FIVE-MINUTES'  COMPARISON. 

r  I  "HE  Nepigon  River  has  for  its  source 
A.  a  great  spring  which  presses  against 
more  than  ninety  miles  of  encircling  rocks 
in  seeking  for  a  chance  to  escape,  and 
then  pours  heaps  of  canorous  water  pell- 
mell  through  a  forty-mile  chute  straight 
into  diaphanic  Lake  Superior.  If  the 
river  stops  a  bit  wherever  there  is  need  to 
touch  up  the  landscape  with  a  lake,  or  if 
it  runs  slowly  past  engaging  scenery,  no 
one  cares  very  much,  because  it  makes  up 
for  lost  time  in  a  headlong  chase  over  the 
rocks  all  of  the  rest  of  the  way. 

The  Saguenay  River,  with  its  forty  miles 

of  tannate  water  debouching  into  a  dark 

sullen  estuary,  is  the  result  of  a  conference 

of  long   rivers  which    meet   at   Lake  St. 

128 


The  Nepigon  and  Saguenay. 


John  and  require  ninety  miles  of  sandy 
circumference  for  the  assembly.  If  you 
would  know  which  St.  John  the  lake  is 
named  after,  try  to  cross  it  in  a  birch-bark 
canoe  when  a  question  of  north  wind  is 
before  the  conference.  The  Nepigon 
River,  as  a  strong  individual  character, 
retains  its  original  motives  and  carries 
into  Lake  Superior  the  same  volume  of 
clearest  cold  water  with  which  it  started, 
—water  that  makes  such  white  foam  and 
spray  in  the  rapids  that  the  Indians  could 
not  help  calling  the  river  the  Nepi-gon,  or 
river-that-is-like-snow.  Such  a  river  is  not 
very  susceptible  to  passing  influences,  and 
during  the  whole  ye'ar  it  may  not  rise  or 
fall  more  than  twenty-five  inches,  while  the 
Saguenay,  responding  to  many  influential 
constituents,  rises  and  falls  as  many  feet 
in  the  course  of  two  months,  and  not  only 
that,  but  it  is  warm  or  cold  at  the  dictation 
of  the  season. 

The  Nepigon  is  not  afraid  to  show  its 
true  nature  at  the  outset  of  its  career, 
and  it  gives  honest  warning  that  it  is  pow- 
erful. The  Saguenay,  on  the  other  hand, 


13°     The  Nepigon  and  Saguenay. 

leaves  the  St.  John  Conference  with  mur- 
der in  its  heart.  Stealthily  as  a  leopard 
it  noiselessly  glides  to  the  Isle  d'Alma, 
then  it  mutters  and  growls  for  a  while,  and 
suddenly  bursts  out  with  demoniacal  fe- 
rocity upon  the  rocks  in  its  path.  If  you 
are  a  master  of  rivers  and  fear  none  of 
them,  go  to  the  Nepigon  and  to  the 
Saguenay  and  see  how  grandly  nature  is 
displayed  along  these  two  great  tributa- 
ries of  the  St.  Lawrence  which  are  so 
much  alike  upon  the  map  and  so  different 
in  their  characters.  Leave  behind  the 
pleasures  of  the  city  that  are  dependent 
upon  arts  which  stimulate  the  mind 
without  nourishing  the  soul ;  where  the 
gardener  makes  the  rose  more  and  more 
beautiful  as  he  gradually  forces  its  stamens 
to  become  petals,  until,  as  the  queen  of 
flowers,  it  has  lost  the  power  of  gener- 
ation ;  where  the  arts  of  civilization 
stimulate  the  mind  until  it  flames  up  in 
genius  and  a  degenerate  body  falls  back. 
Go  to  the  Nepigon  and  to  the  Saguenay 
and  see  what  substantial  things  can  be 
found  there  in  nature.  On  the  Nepigon, 


The  Nepigon  and  Saguenay.      131 

igneous  cliffs  of  trap  rock  tower  in  stern 
grandeur  over  the  river-that-is-like-snow. 
The  dark  forest  growth  of  fir  and  tama- 
rack, toned  by  poplar,  birch,  and  round- 
wood,  becomes  thinned  and  sparse  on  the 
mountains,  just  as  though  the  Oreads  had 
planned  their  forest  before  violent  up- 
heavals of  the  earth  made  ten  humpy  miles 
out  of  one  smooth  mile,  and  thereby  upset 
their  calculations.  On  the  Saguenay — the 
corrupted  name  for  the  Shagahneu-hi,  or 
ice-hole  river,  so  named  because  the  seals 
used  to  keep  many  air-holes  open  in  the 
ice  of  the  estuary — Laurentian  rocks  in 
sombre  piles  lift  up  their  covering  of 
coniferous  and  deciduous  trees,  which  are 
much  like  those  of  the  Nepigon,  but  here 
and  there  a  fine  yellow  pine  holds  mo- 
narchial  possession  of  a  jagged  island,  and 
the  trunks  of  the  northern  white  birch 
light  up  the  forest  aisles.  An  area  of  fos- 
siliferous  limestone  on  Lake  St.  John  has 
come  to  the  surface,  bearing  evidence  of 
the  abundance  of  life  in  Silurian  days.  A 
devout  clergyman  remarked  that  these 
fossils  were  never  alive,  but  were  placed 


132     The  Nepigon  and  Saguenay. 

there  in  their  present  form  to  test  our 
faith,  and  they  have  done  it.  Moose  and 
caribou  sometimes  leave  tracks  among 
the  twin-flowers  and  adder-mouths  along 
the  banks  of  both  the  Nepigon  and  Sague- 
nay rivers,  and  one  need  not  go  very  far 
away  to  find  abundance  of  such  game. 
Black  bears  swim  the  rivers  at  safe  cross- 
ing-places, and  the  voice  of  a  gray  wolf 
may  be  heard  above  the  sound  of  rushing 
waters  when  all  else  under  the  stars  is 
still.  Along  both  rivers  the  northern 
hares  furnish  the  principal  food  supply 
for  carnivorous  animals  and  birds,  just  as 
the  ciscoes  furnish  a  large  food  supply  for 
the  predatory  fishes  of  the  region.  Spruce 
grouse  and  ruffed  grouse  fly  into  the  bushes 
near  the  fisherman,  and  look  at  him  in 
wonderment,  and  the  cinereous  owl  catches 
ptarmigans  on  the  hills  in  winter.  In  the 
Nepigon  River  brook  trout  find  such  an 
abundance  of  food  and  such  agreeably 
cold  water  that  they  grow  to  an  enormous 
size,  and  are  ready  to  spring  after  the  fly  at 
almost  any  time  of  day  after  10  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Like  fish  in  other  very  cold 


The  Nepigon  and  Saguenay.      133 

streams,  they  do  not  rise  readily  in  the 
early  morning,  and  the  best  sport  may  be 
had  with  them  in  the  middle  of  the  sun- 
shiniest day.  The  big  6-pounders  jump 
at  the  fly  almost  as  eagerly  as  the  young- 
sters do,  and  the  very  largest  trout  are  so 
sleek  and  fat  that  they  are  delicious  for 
the  camp  table — quite  different  from  the 
mill-pond  trout  of  warmer  waters,  which 
lose  flavor  and  activity  as  soon  as  they 
have  passed  the  ounces  period  in  their 
lives.  Side  by  side  with  the  trout  are 
swarms  of  monstrous  pike  (Esox  lucius], 
and  sometimes  one  of  these  will  take  a 
silver-doctor  fly.  So  will  the  salmon  trout 
which  lurk  in  the  tail  water  of  deep  rap- 
ids, and  so  will  the  pike-perch  if  one  is 
casting  the  fly  at  night.  The  Nepigon 
looks  like  good  bass  water  from  the  fish- 
erman's point  of  view,  but  the  bass  them- 
selves say  that  it  is  too  cold,  and  I  know 
of  only  two  that  have  been  caught  there. 
If  we  leave  the  best  trout  water  to  itself 
for  a  while  and  toss  the  fly  over  still  black 
reaches  where  the  water  is  ever  so  many 
fathoms  deep,  a  surprise  may  come  to  the 


134  Nepigon  and  Saguenay  Rivers. 

surface  in  the  form  of  a  pale  trout  with 
translucent  nose  and  fins,  who  shows  by 
his  colors  that  he  lives  away  down  in  the 
gloom  of  bottom  caverns.  We  must  not 
expect  to  catch  one  of  these  trout,  but 
once  in  a  while  there  comes  an  hour  when 
they  are  all  at  the  surface. 

Whitefish  take  the  fly  readily  if  one  is 
knowing  enough  to  tempt  them  in  a  poli- 
tic way,  and  they  certainly  belong  to  the 
game  fishes  of  America.  They  cannot 
chase  and  capture  an  ordinary  artificial  fly, 
but  if  we  put  half  a  dozen  flies,  tied  on 
No.  14  hooks  on  a  single  leader,  and  drop 
this  affair  lightly  among  the  fins  that  are 
circling  about  at  the  surface  in  the  even- 
ing, and  keep  it  perfectly  still,  pretty  soon 
the  whitefish  will  move  up  to  it  and  try 
to  pick  off  the  small  flies  as  daintily  as  a 
red  deer  nips  a  lily  bud. 

Although  there  are  half  a  dozen  species 
of  fish  that  will  rise  to  the  fly  in  the  Nepi- 
gon, the  chief  game  fish  of  the  river  is 
first  and  last  the  red-spotted  square-tailed 
brook  trout.  In  the  Saguenay  the  chief 
game  fish  is  the  ouananiche,  or  so-called 


Nepigon  and  Saguenay  Rivers.    135 

landlocked  salmon.  This  is  the  inland 
salmon  that  is  found  in  many  lake  streams 
from  Maine  to  Labrador,  if  the  streams 
contain  smelts.  Ichthyologists  find  the 
landlocked  salmon  anatomically  much  like 
the  salmon  that  goes  to  the  sea,  but 
the  ouananiche  are  content  to  remain 
with  the  food  supply  that  is  in  sight 
in  fresh  water ;  just  as  certain  people  who 
might  be  important  in  the  city  prefer  to 
remain  small  in  the  village,  because  they 
are  satisfied  with  the  opportunities  in 
sight,  though  anatomically  they  are  the 
same  folks.  It  is  principally  a  question  of 
size  of  opportunity. 

In  the  Saguenay  we  find  the  same  mon- 
strous pike  and  the  same  pike-perch  and 
whitefish  as  in  the  Nepigon,  but  the 
trout  are  absent.  There  are  plenty  of 
trout  in  the  tributary  streams  which  are 
not  inhabited  by  the  ouananiche,  but  the 
two  fish  rather  avoid  each  other  because 
they  are  such  close  rivals.  Both  are  mag- 
nificent, but  they  cannot  see  it  in  each 
other. 

The  guides  of  the  Nepigon  are  for  the 


136  Nepigon  and  Saguenay  Rivers. 

most  part  Chippewa  Indians  or  half-breeds, 
who  are  willing  enough  to  have  visitors 
enter  their  domain,  but  who  are  not  very 
amiable.  Such  is  their  nature.  They  do 
not  even  make  friends  of  their  dogs,  who 
would  gladly  love  them  and  forgive  all  of 
their  failings.  A  stray  Indian  dog  of  the 
most  pathetic  yellow  color  came  to  our 
camp  one  day,  and  when  we  tried  to  pat 
his  head  the  poor  little  fellow  spread  his 
legs  apart  and  braced  himself,  thinking 
that  we  were  trying  to  push  him  over.  He 
did  not  know  that  there  was  any  such 
thing  as  affection  in  the  whole  round 
world  ;  but  we  developed  that  latent  trait 
for  him,  and  glad  indeed  was  he  to  find  at 
the  end  of  a  week  that  his  tail  had  a  use 
and  that  it  could  wag. 

On  the  Saguenay  the  guides  are  hardy, 
polite  French-Canadians,  simple  in  their 
ways,  and  delighted  to  have  a  chance  to 
show  their  hospitality  if  we  visit  their 
humble  homes.  In  their  relations  with 
each  other  every  man  stands  on  his  real 
merits  and  accepts  the  position  that  is 
given  him  in  the  estimation  of  his  con- 


Nepigon  and  Saguenay  Rivers.    137 

freres.  Monsieur  E.  R.  Dutou  cannot  block 
up  a  shaky  reputation  by  signing  himself 
Eelnavo  Reanne  Dutou.  He  cannot  ele- 
vate the  neighborhood  by  forcing  his  name 
under  society  in  the  form  of  a  wedge  as 
E.  Reanne  Dutou  ;  nor  can  he  send  the 
chain-shot  name  of  Eelnavo  Reanne- 
Dutou  hurtling  through  a  startled  public 
if  he  is  personally  deficient  in  powder. 

The  Nepigon  has  completed  its  duty 
when  the  tribute  of  waters  is  freely  paid 
to  Lake  Superior,  but  the  Saguenay 
avariciously  makes  its  current  pass 
through  a  long  estuary  before  deliver- 
ing its  property  to  the  sea.  The  es- 
tuary is  full  of  weird  interest.  The 
sombre  current,  the  beetling  mountains, 
and  the  cold  northern  air  are  all  in  keep- 
ing. White  whales  gleam  out  of  the  dark 
flood  in  striking  contrasts  of  color.  A 
beluga  is  not  "  sort  of  white,"  but  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  white  animals,  the 
quality  of  his  coloring  reminding  one  of 
the  soft,  supple  white  of  a  pure  white 
stallion. 

At  Tadousac,  with  its  lofty  terraces  of 


138  Nepigon  and  Saguenay  Rivers. 

shifting  dunes,  the  Saguenay  joins  the  St. 
Lawrence  grudgingly,  and  the  reddish 
waters  push  far  out  into  those  of  the 
greater  river  before  their  moroseness  is 
tamed. 

A  NOTE  ON  TANNATE  WATER. 

Wishing  to  have  an  explanation  for  the 
reddish  stain  of  many  northern  streams,  I 
wrote  for  information  to  the  Department 
of  Agriculture  at  Washington  and  at  Ot- 
tawa. From  Washington  came  the  reply 
that  no  information  on  that  subject  was 
obtainable.  From  Ottawa  I  received  a 
personal  letter  from  Secretary  H.  B. 
Small,  who  kindly  stated  that  while  no 
definite  answer  could  be  given,  it  was  his 
impression  that  the  stain  was  due  to  the 
action  of  tannin  in  the  water,  and  that  the 
question  would  be  referred  to  the  chemists 
and  botanists  of  the  Department  of  Agri- 
culture of  Canada.  A  report  from  Chief 
Chemist  F.  T.  Schutt  contained  analyses 
of  Ottawa  River  water  showing  that  the 
coloring  of  that  river  was  largely  due  to 


Nepigon  and  Saguenay  Rivers.    139 

peaty  matter  held  in  suspension,  but  there 
is  no  peat  on  some  of  the  reddest  streams 
that  I  have  fished,  so  acting  upon  the  sug- 
gestion of  Secretary  Small  I  made  experi- 
mental test-tube  tannates  of  iron  and  of 
manganese  in  weak  aqueous  solution.  The 
iron  tannate  was  at  first  redder  than  stream 
water  and  the  manganese  tannate  was  too 
smoky.  A  combination  of  equal  parts  of 
solution  of  iron  tannate  and  of  manganese 
tannate  gave  at  first  too  smoky  a  color, 
but  after  standing  exposed  to  the  light 
for  a  few  hours  an  abundant  flocculent 
precipitate  formed  in  all  of  the  test  tubes, 
and  all  of  the  solutions  assumed  a  tint 
quite  characteristic  of  that  of  the  streams. 
This  stain  was  little  changed  at  the  end  of 
two  weeks.  Rain  water  coming  in  con- 
tact with  dead  tannin-bearing  trees  and 
plants  would  take  tannin  into  solution, 
and  this  solution  percolating  through  a 
soil  containing  iron  or  manganese  would 
make  highly  colored  tannates  of  the  met- 
als before  reaching  a  stream.  Even  in 
peaty  waters  the  color  could  be  due  in 
part  to  the  presence  of  tannates.  It  was 


Nepigon  and  Saguenay  Rivers. 


a  pleasure  to  feel  that  my  nice  red  streams 
were  not  unclean,  and  that  they  apparently 
represented  nothing  more  than  a  pretty 
reaction  in  Nature's  laboratory.  It  is  true 
enough  that  nothing  in  science  is  unclean, 
but  a  trout  is  particular  and  would  a  little 
rather  know  that  the  tinting  of  his  water 
came  from  neat  tannates  of  iron  and  man- 
ganese. 


THE  NUMBER  NINE  AS  A  TALE 
VARNISHER. 

'  I  ^HE  number  nine  is  apparently  the 
JL  numeral  of  hyperbole.  It  is  used  in 
the  place  of  a  lesser  numeral  in  a  careless 
way  to  fill  gaps  in  the  memory  of  the 
story-teller,  and  it  is  also  employed  inten- 
tionally for  impressive  effect. 

Curiously  enough  the  use  of  the  num- 
ber nine  for  purposes  of  exaggeration  has 
been  employed  since  early  days  in  history. 
One's  attention  having  been  attracted  to 
the  subject,  it  is  a  source  of  surprise  to 
observe  to  what  frequent  use  the  chosen 
numeral  is  put. 

A  boatman  who  takes  me  out  on  hunt- 
ing and  fishing  excursions  is  in  the  habit  of 
using  the  number  nine  so  often  in  speak- 
ing of  the  numbers  or  weight  of  fish  and 
game  that  the  listener  soon  perceives  that 
141 


The  Number  Nine. 


he  is  allowing  the  numeral  in  question  to 
stand  for  a  lesser  number  of  birds,  or 
pounds  of  fish.  In  my  boatman's  inaccu- 
rate memory  the  number  nine  rounds  out 
the  bag  to  a  satisfactory  extent. 

Beyond  my  amusement  at  this  man's 
fibs,  the  subject  caused  no  reflection  until 
one  day  when  off  for  a  walk  I  met  a  man 
who  had  not  succeeded  in  killing  any  snipe 
on  that  day  but  who  said  that  he  had 
killed  nine  on  the  previous  evening.  A 
little  farther  on  a  man  who  was  fishing  for 
bass  said  that  he  had  caught  only  nine. 
On  asking  him  to  let  me  see  them  he  said 
that  they  were  in  a  scap  net  in  the  spring 
where  they  would  keep  cool,  and  on  lift- 
ing out  the  net  I  found  seven  bass.  The 
fisherman  then  decided  that  his  wife  must 
have  come  down  and  taken  two  of  them 
to  the  house  for  dinner  without  his  know- 
ing it.  Before  reaching  home  that  day  I 
found  a  man  who  had  killed  nine  ducks 
before  breakfast  just  across  the  way  from 
the  boat-house.  It  then  occurred  to  me 
that  I  was  on  the  verge  of  an  observation, 
and  there  came  to  mind  at  once  a  number 


The  Number  Nine. 


of  familiar  nines  that  have  been  handed 
down  to  us.  A  stitch  in  time  saves  nine. 
Nine  tailors  make  a  man.  A  nine-days' 
wonder.  A  cat  has  nine  lives.  A  cat 
o'nine  tails.  The  nine  days'  fast.  The 
nine-days'  prayer.  Ninebark  is  the  name 
of  a  plant,  Spircea  opulifolia,  in  which  the 
bark  separates  into  several  layers.  Nine 
killer  is  the  name  of  a  shrike,  Collurio 
borealis,  which  suspends  several  small 
objects  of  prey  upon  thorns  and  twigs. 
Nine-day  fits  is  the  name  for  a  disease, 
Trismus  nascentium.  Nine  was  the 
number  of  books  that  the  Sibyl  laid  be- 
fore Tarquin.  The  Muses  were  nine. 

We  can  almost  formulate  a  law  that 
when  an  exaggerator  deals  with  numerals 
ranging  up  to  eight  he  instinctively  finds 
that  the  number  nine  represents  the  im- 
aginative value  of  such  numerals.  One 
can  often  take  up  a  copy  of  a  daily 
newspaper  and  find  that  reporters  are 
fond  of  the  number  nine.  The  follow- 
ing clippings  are  to  the  point.  While 
the  number  nine  is  used  by  various  classes 
of  people  hyperbolically,  it  is  most  often 


144          The  Number  Nine. 

heard  when  sportsmen  are  relating  their 
tales,  and  it  occurs  so  persistently  in  the 
sportsmen's  papers  that  I  instinctively 
glance  over  game  and  fish  reports  before 
reading  them  for  the  purpose  of  picking 
out  the  nines.  Three  and  seven  are 
favorite  numbers,  but  are  not  used  like 
nine  for  hyperbole. 

"NINE  KNOWN  TO  BE  KILLED. 

"  FIFTEEN    OTHER    MINERS    BURIED    IN    THE    YORK    FARM 
COLLIERY   NEAR    POTTSVILLE. 

"  ANOTHER  TERRIBLE  MINE  EXPLOSION  IN  THE  READING 
COAL  FIELD. 

"  The  Cause  of  the  Disaster  Unknown,  but  it  is  Supposed  that 
the  Miners  Struck  a  '  Feeder'  and  Ignited  the  Gas  with 
their  Lamps — Women  and  Children  at  the  Mine's  Mouth 
—The  Work  of  Rescue  Pushed  Rapidly. 

11  [SPECIAL  TO  THE  '  WORLD.'] 

"  POTTSVILLE,  PA.,  July  23. — York  Farm  Colliery, 
situated  about  two  miles  from  this  city,  was  the 
scene  of  a  terrible  explosion  about  noon  to-day. 
Eight  men  are  known  to  have  been  killed  outright, 
and  it  is  believed  that  fifteen  more  have  suffered 
the  same  fate.  Those  known  to  have  been  killed 
are  as  follows  : 

"  i.  John  Harrison,  of  Wadesville  (fire  boss)  ; 
leaves  a  widow  and  four  children. 


The  Number  Nine.  14$ 

"  2.  Thomas  Jones,  Minersville  ;  married. 
"  3.  William  Jones,  Minersville  ;  single. 
"  4.  William  Wehman,  Minersville. 
"  5.  James  Hartzel,  Llewellyn. 
"  6.  George  Kreiss,  Middle  Creek. 
"7.  Herman  Werner,  St.  Clair;  leaves  a  widow 
and  eight  children. 

"  8.  Anthony  Putchlavage,  Pottsville. 

"  Those  known  to  have  been  injured  are  : 

"  Anthony  Stock,  boy,  leg  broken  and  burned  ; 


"  NINE  PERSONS  WERE  KILLED,  AND  THE 
INJURED  LIST  IS  A  LONG  ONE. 

"A  Dense  Fog  Prevailed  at  the  Time,  and  the  Accused  En- 
gineer Claims  he  could  not  See  the  Signals — Rear  Coach 
of  the  Passenger  Train  Smashed,  and  Few  of  the  Travellers 
Escaped  Uninjured — List  of  the  Dead. 

"  [SPECIAL  TO  THE  '  WORLD.'] 

"  BOSTON,  MASS.,  Sept.  13. — To  a  dense  fog  and 
apparent  carelessness  on  the  part  of  the  engineer  of 
the  freight  train  is  to  be  charged  the  fatal  accident 
on  the  Fitchburg  Railroad  shortly  before  1 1  o'clock 
last  evening,  at  West  Cambridge,  by  which  eight 
were  killed  and  many  injured. 

"  The  dead  are  : 

"  i.  Adams,  Miss  Margaret,  35  years,  Water- 
town. 

"  2.  Barnes,  John  H.,  61  years,  Newtown. 

"  3.  Feyler,  Miss  Rhita,  23  years,  Waltham.- 


The  Number  Nine. 


"4.  Hudson,  John,  51  years,  Watertowm. 

"  5.  Lane,  John,  46  years,  Watertown. 

"  6.  Merrifield,  H.  F.,  Watertown. 

"  7.  Raymond,  Leon  O.,  freight  brakeman, 
Winchendon. 

"  8.  Sullivan,  Standish  P.,  56  years,  East  Water- 
town. 

"  Following   is  a  complete   list   of  the   injured. 


"  NINE  HAT  FACTORIES  REOPENED. 

"  BUT  IT   IS    SAID  THAT   FEW   OF  THE  OLD  EMPLOYES  HAVE 
RETURNED    TO    WORK. 

"  [BY   TELEGRAPH   TO    THE    '  HERALD.'] 

"  DANBURY,  CONN.,  Jan.  25,  1894. — Nine  of  the 
twenty  hat  factories  that  have  been  closed  two 
months  by  a  lockout  of  their  employes  reopened 
this  morning.  The  manufacturers  refuse  to  tell 
how  many  of  their  late  employes  returned,  but  the 
Executive  Committee  of  the  unions  places  the  total 
number  at  twenty-two.  The  firms  that  reopened 
their  factories  and  attempted  to  resume  operations 
were:  i,  C.  H.  Merritt  &  Son  ;  2,  White,  Tweedy  & 
Smyth  ;  3,  W.  Beckerle  &  Co.  ;  4,  John  W.  Green  ; 
5,  D.  E.  Lowe  &  Co.;  6,  T.  Brothwell&  Co.  ;  7,  E. 
A.  Mallory  &  Sons  ;  and  8,  T.  C.  Millard  &  Co. 
Several  of  the  firms  started  work  in  some  depart- 
ments, and  all  agree  that  they  will  be  running  in  all 
departments  next  week." 


The  Number  Nine.  147 

"$900  FOR  ONE  MUSHROOM. 

"  AN  AMATEUR  GROWER  RECOUNTS   HIS  COSTLY    EXPERIENCE. 

" '  What  do  you  say  to  a  little  roast  duck  and  ap- 
ple sauce  ? '  Jones  asked  of  a  reporter,  looking 
over  the  bill  of  fare  after  they  had  seated  them- 
selves in  the  restaurant. 

"  '  Too  rich,'  the  reporter  answered.  '  Why  not 
beefsteak  and  mushrooms  ? ' 

"  '  Anything  but  mushrooms  ! '  Jones  exclaimed. 
'  The  last  one  I  ate  cost  me  something  over  $900, 
and  I  'm  under  a  .  .  .  " 

" .  .  .  near  the  east  shore.  He  has  recovered 
nine  bodies  from  Cayuga  Lake  and  as  many  more 
from  Seneca  Lake." 

"  Last  week  I  found  nine  coveys  of  chickens 
within  a  half-mile  of  each  other.  On  an  eighteen- 
mile  drive  I  ... 

"...  any  Warren  Street  school-boy  can  solve. 
You  have  a  divisor,  quotient,  and  remainder,  now 
find  the  dividend — that  fish  measures  exactly  9  ft. 
in  length." 

"...  dashed  over  an  old  log.  The  bait 
was  no  sooner  out  of  sight  than  it  was  caught  and  I 
landed  a  g-in.  trout.  Then  I  began  to  think  how  I 
could  carry  them  all  home  and  .  .  . 

"...  neighborhood  had  skinned  out  the 
pheasants  very  materially  ;  in  fact  Mr.  Crawford 


148          The  Number  Nine. 

told  us  that  he  had  killed  only  the  day  before  nine 
pheasants  over  the  same  grounds  that  we  hunted, 
and  we  only  got  four  ..." 

"Yesterday  a  fisherman  caught  nine  bass  in  a 
forenoon's  fishing  on  Ballast  Reef,  and  the  news 
was  quickly  circulated  among  the  disappointed 
visitors,  with  the  result  of  inducing  several  of  them 
to  stay  over  another  day  to  ... 

"...  the 'bar,' as  the  strip  of  sand  known 
as  Fire  Island  is  called.  Mr.  William  Ryan  landed 
a  nine-pounder  the  other  day  while  trolling  near  the 
light-house.  Mr.  Ryan  is  very  fond  of  fast  horses, 
and  is  one  of  the  most  expert  .  .  . 

"Two  peddlers  met  in  front  of  a  nine-story  tene- 
ment-house in  New  York.  '  How  is  business, 
Aaron  ? ' — '  Very  good,  indeed.  And  how  is  it 
with  you  ? ' — '  A  woman  just  called  me  from  the 
top  story  of  this  tenement.  I  ... 

"...  that  Jocko  Lake  furnishes  unusually 
good  fishing.  Sometimes  a  single  line  is  rigged 
with  nine  hooks,  and,  if  left  down  a  short  time 
when  the  trout  are  biting  freely,  will  often  secure 
nine  trout,  or  a  fish  on  each  hook,  at  a  single  time." 

"  Hoi'  Joe  he  '11  come  any  place  where  dere  be 
some  folkses,  he  '11  beegin  holler,  '  Any  one  man 
want  see  nine  rattlin  snake,  for  twanty-fav  cen', 
jomp  on  de  woggin.' 

"  Den  w'en  you  '11  gat  on  for  look,  hoi'  Joe  he  '11 
stroke  it 


The  Number  Nine.  149 

' '  If  you  will  come  with  me  about  a  mile  out  in 
the  country,  I  will  introduce  you  to  the  widow 
Sneider,  now  an  old  lady.  The  widow  Sneider 
will  tell  you  that  on  one  morning  she  counted  900 
(nine  hundred)  wagon-loads  of  bullheads  on  their 
way  from  the  geyser  below  the  dam.'  " 

"  Mack  turned  to  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  where  the 
three  fish  lay — a  big  old  hook-jaw  and  two  small 
ones,  and  picked  up  the  smallest,  rinsed  him  till  he 
glistened,  and  hung  him  in  the  air — about  9  in.  of 
trout.  Then  a  howl  of  derision  went  up  and  they 
put  on  exhibition  a  string  of  ... 

"MR.  ROBERTS — I  do  not  think  the  winninish 
and  land-locked  salmon  are  the  same  by  any  means. 
Why  is  it  we  never  get  the  winninish  any  larger  ? 
We  get  the  salmon  weighing  25  Ibs.,  but  the  winni- 
nish never  weigh  over  5  Ibs. 

"  MR.  BRACKETT — I  have  seen  them  weighing  9 
Ibs." 

"  From  Pueblo  the  report  says  that  nine  men 
have  been  killed,  while  the  operator  at  Rouse  Junc- 
tion places  the  number  at  five,  and  this  is  confirmed 
by  the  manager  of  a  mine  at  Rouse  ;  while  Trini- 
dad states  that  only  one  man,  a  Deputy  Sheriff,  was 
slain.  Everything  favors  the  death  of  at  least  nine 
men  ..." 

"  Our  wood-sawyer  Willis,  whose  testimony  differs 
from  all  others,  has,  notwithstanding  his  lack  of 
adherents,  much  better  proof  of  his  position,  for, 


150 


The  Number  Nine. 


when  questioned,  he  not  only  affirmed  that  'th' 
jays  tote  "  trash  "  nine  times  ev'ry  Friday  t'  make 
th'  fire  hotter  to  burn  up  we's  souls  with,  in  the 
"  Bad  Place,"  '  but  that  he  has  actually  seen  them 
engaged  in  the  business." 


EN  KLAPJAGT  PAA  DANSKE 
FJELDE. 

THE  gray  haze  of  a  November  morn- 
ing made  a  monochrome  with  the 
gray  walls  and  paved  streets  of  Denmark's 
capital,  as  Dr.  Warming  and  I  with  our 
guns  and  canvas  suits  and  big  boots, 
stepped  into  our  carriage  in  Vesterbro- 
gade  and  rattled  off  past  the  early  milk- 
man with  his  bumping,  thumping  cans, 
and  past  the  homeward-bound  gambler, 
who  was  damp  and  limp  from  long  ex- 
posure to  night  air. 

Uncas,  the  setter,  we  had  left  whining 
and  barking  and  pawing  at  the  door,  and 
my  heart  went  out  in  pity  for  the  poor 
fellow  as  my  mind  reverted  to  earlier  days 
and  a  little  red  school-house  beneath  the 
butternut  trees  in  a  small  Connecticut 
village.  A  loose  clap-boarded,  lichen- 


152  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

blotched  school-house  in  which  I  myself 
could  have  whined  and  barked  and  pawed 
at  the  door  when  the  gentians  by  the 
brookside  were  nodding  toward  the  musk- 
rat  tracks  in  the  sand,  and  when  the 
ruffed  grouse  in  freedom  walked  and  flew 
whither  they  would  in  the  gay-colored 
breezy  autumn  forest.  Yes  !  I  could  sym- 
pathize with  Uncas  now.  We  were  going 
on  a  drive  hunt,  and  knew  that  the  ambi- 
tious setter  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  follow  if  a  sleek-limbed  hare  should 
shake  its  tail  in  his  face  and  challenge  him 
for  a  run.  I  had  hunted  deer  in  the  Royal 
Forest,  had  shot  partridges  on  the  private 
estates  of  wealthy  landowners,  and  in  fact 
had  enjoyed  every  luxury  in  the  way  of 
shooting  that  my  Danish  friends  could 
furnish,  with  the  exception  of  the  drive 
hunt  which  had  been  arranged  for  the 
day  of  which  I  write. 

We  reached  the  suburbs  of  Copenhagen 
and  smelled  the  rich  salt  air  from  the 
reedy  marshes  just  as  the  haze  in  the  east 
began  to  grow  coppery,  and  the  peeps  of 
the  small  birds  fluttering  from  the  hedges 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  153 

by  the  wayside  told  of  the  beginning  of 
their  day.  Flocks  of  sparrows  were  al- 
ready feeding  in  the  stubble,  and  their 
chirrups  sounded  clear  and  loud  through 
the  crisp  morning  air.  The  white  frost 
on  the  fences  sparkled  on  the  eastern  side 
of  the  way,  and  the  heavy-framed  laborers 
with  wooden  shoes,  carrying  agricultural 
implements  on  their  shoulders,  bowed  po- 
litely to  us  as  they  passed  on  their  way  to 
work.  Broad  meadows  stretched  out  to 
the  right  and  to  the  left.  Fields  of  yellow 
wheat  stubble,  of  green  and  gray  turnips, 
and  of  red  cabbage  dotted  the  hillsides. 
Here  and  there  stood  a  dark  Norway 
spruce  tree  or  a  clump  of  beech  trees.  The 
air  felt  just  as  Pennsylvania  air  feels,  and 
the  groups  of  apple  and  pear  and  cherry 
trees  might  just  as  well  have  been  stand- 
ing in  somebody's  back  yard  in  Massa- 
chusetts ;  but  nevertheless  there  was  a 
something  different,  an  indescribable  for- 
eignness  about  the  scenery  which  im- 
pressed me  constantly  and  pleasantly. 

My  enthusiastic  companion,  who  spoke 
no  English,  and  whom  I  constantly  ad- 


154  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

monished  to  speak  slowly,  would  start  off 
on  an  enraptured  strain  about  prospects 
every  few  minutes,  in  the  same  way  as 
Sam  and  I  encourage  each  other  when 
the  ruffed  grouse  at  home  are  fat  and 
the  chestnuts  shine  in  plump  brownness 
through  the  yellow  and  crumply  leaves 
under  foot.  Thistles  and  plantain  and 
clover  grew  with  familiar  grasses  along 
the  road,  and  shocks  of  corn  were  waiting 
to  be  husked.  A  little  way  ahead  a  high 
thatched  windmill  swung  its  long  arms 
slowly  around  in  the  light  breeze,  and 
over  the  top  of  a  hill  to  the  right  the 
ends  of  another  windmill's  arms  appeared 
and  disappeared  at  regular  intervals. 
Every  now  and  then  a  big  white  and 
black  magpie  slid  from  a  tree  overhead 
as  we  jogged  along,  or  a  flock  of  lead- 
colored  crows  (Corvus  comix)  changed 
fence-posts  and  cawed  a  recognition.  Over 
the  bay  long  lines  of  geese  were  cleaving 
the  air  with  waving  wings,  and  an  occa- 
sional mallard  or  snipe  settled  in  among 
the  feathery-topped  rushes  near  us. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  soften  the 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  155 

air  of  the  perfect  autumn  morning  when 
we  espied  the  group  of  jolly  Danes  who 
were  waiting  at  the  place  of  rendezvous. 
There  were  Ole  Larsen  and  Lars  Olesen, 
and  Neils  Holmsen  and  Holm  Nielsen, 
and  Asmus  Rasmussen  and  Rasmus  As- 
mussen,  and  Ask  Bjoerken,  and  Axel  Ha- 
gerup,  and  Olof  Qvist,  Hjelt  Raavad,  and 
Sell  Maag,  and  Hjalmer  Bjoernsen,  and  a 
lot  of  others  whose  names  have  in  some 
unaccountable  way  slipped  my  mind. 

Twenty  or  thirty  flaxen-haired,  strong- 
waisted  boys  wearing  home-made  clothes 
and  heavy  wooden  shoes,  carried  wooden 
clappers  and  old  tin  pans  and  other  racket- 
producing  implements.  The  noise  part 
of  the  hunt  was  to  be  left  to  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  boys,  and  never  was  respon- 
sibility carried  more  lightly.  There  were 
hunting  suits  of  corduroy,  and  hunting 
suits  of  canvas,  and  hunting  suits  of 
business  suits  there.  There  were  Eng- 
lish guns  with  shoulder-straps,  and  Belgian 
guns  with'  shoulder-straps,  and  American 
guns  with  shoulder-straps  :  and  all  these 
straps  wrinkled  the  coats  of  their  respective 


i56  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danskc  l:jclde. 

owners  as  the  hunters  stood  about  chat- 
ting in  Danish  and  preparing  for  the  start. 
Many  of  the  men  could  speak  German 
and  French,  and  it  was  surprising  to  find 
that  many  who  had  had  little  opportunity 
to  speak  English  were  able  to  carry  on 
conversation  in  that  tongue. 

A  few  minutes  were  spent  in  making 
arrangements,  and  then  we  formed  in  a 
line  out  across  the  fields,  the  hunters 
about  two  gunshots  apart  and  the  boys 
sandwiched  in  between.  There  we  stood 
in  picturesque  style,  the  fox-tail  grass  and 
and  the  red-flowered  wild  poppies  and  the 
seedy  pig  weeds  glistening  about  our  feet 
with  melting  frost,  while  every  one  impa- 
tiently awaited  the  signal  to  start.  Sud- 
denly a  bugle  blast  rang  out  along  the 
line,  and  at  the  same  instant  the  boys  be- 
gan a  lively  clapping  and  clattering,  and 
the  shooters  shouted  in  glee  to  each  other, 
as  with  cocked  guns  and  accelerated  heart- 
beats we  began  a  military  march  toward 
the  horizon. 

From  under  the  very  feet  of  Stjerne  on 
my  left  an  enormous  hare  bounds  out  like 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  157 

a  mule  struck  by  a  locomotive,  and  with 
ears  laid  back  and  short  tail  bobbing  be- 
gins to  measure  off  the  ground  in  rods. 
A  No.  10  roar  calls  out  for  him  to  halt, 
and  through  the  smoke  we  see  the  hare 
tumbling  and  rolling  and  kicking  sand 
and  grass  into  the  air.  A  boy  runs  for- 
ward, and  grabbing  the  heavy  animal  by 
its  hind  legs  throws  it  over  his  shoulder 
and  hurries  back  to  the  line.  A  hare 
weighs  as  much  as  a  shotgun,  but  no  boy 
ever  felt  too  tired  to  carry  one  of  them. 
Another  flash  further  down  the  line,  and 
another  an  instant  later,  excite  the  boys 
to  the  development  of  a  tin  pandemonium. 
There  goes  a  hare  which  was  not  hit 
and  three  dogs  start  after  him  at  once. 
Over  the  meadow  they  go  at  a  tremendous 
rate,  the  hare  hardly  touching  the  ground 
with  his  feet,  but  in  a  brown  and  white 
line  of  waving  motion  leading  the  canines 
easily.  Were  he  to  keep  straight  on  at 
this  rate  he  would  be  in  Moscow  in  time 
for  luncheon,  but  playful  in  his  fleetness  he 
turns,  and  circling  back  runs  almost  up  to 
Hvide,  who  strikes  him  in  the  fore  quarter 


158  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

with  a  stray  shot.  Off  he  scurries,  handi- 
capped, with  one  of  the  dogs  close  at  his 
heels ;  but  it  seems  as  though  a  bar  of 
steel  prevented  the  dog  from  gaining  the 
last  necessary  foot  of  distance,  while  the 
hare  bounds  up  and  down  so  fast  that  I 
wonder  why  he  does  n't  shake  his  head  off 
or  fray  the  end  of  his  tail.  Hares  are  put 
together  with  strings,  and  this  one  does 
not  even  shake  an  ear  loose.  The  shooters 
hold  their  breaths  in  their  intense  inter- 
est. Suddenly  the  hare  doubles,  and 
the  dog  in  the  funniest  kind  of  a  way 
goes  sprawling  several  yards  past  before 
he  can  acquire  the  saw-horse  stiff-legged- 
ness  which  he  requires  for  stopping.  An- 
other dog  springs  open-mouthed  on  the 
hare,  but  he  opens  his  mouth  too  widely 
or  something  of  the  sort,  because  the  hare 
seemed  to  pop  right  through  him  and 
come  out  smiling.  The  third  dog  joins  the 
first  one,  and  together  they  dash  furiously 
through  the  grass  and  out  across  the 
ploughed  field.  The  hare  misses  his 
footing  and  a  gleam  of  white  belly  fur 
appears  for  an  instant  as  he  rolls  on  a 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.   159 

furrow.  The  dogs  make  a  dive  for  him, 
but  they  are  too  simultaneous  and  stand 
themselves  up  like  three  muskets  on  an 
armory  floor.  The  hare  has  all  of  the 
room  and  time  that  he  wants,  and  leaves 
the  dogs  standing  as  pigeon-toed  and  dis- 
couraged as  a  man  with  a  broken  collar- 
button  on  a  hot  evening  at  the  theater. 
A  puff  of  smoke  and  a  loud  bang  are  fol- 
lowed by  a  reaping  of  grass  leaves  about 
the  hare,  and  the  dogs  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  "quit  their  fooling."  It  seems 
as  much  a  pity  to  let  off  that  hare's  energy 
as  it  does  to  waste  the  steam  from  an  en- 
gine at  the  end  of  a  day's  work. 

As  we  start  on  again  Bjoernstjerne 
quickly  jumps  around  and  fires  into  the 
turnip  leaves  through  which  we  have  just 
passed,  bagging  a  hare  and  half  a  dozen 
turnips,  but  letting  a  boy  get  off  as  a  fast 
driver  to  the  right  without  hitting  him. 
Notwithstanding  the  noise  and  distur- 
bance the  hare  had  lain  so  close  that  he 
was  passed  unobserved  and  might  have 
escaped  if  he  had  allowed  us  to  do  the  de- 
parting instead  of  trying  to  do  part  of  it 


160  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danskc  Fjelcle. 

himself.  Division  of  labor  has  its  disad- 
vantages. Ploughed  land  seems  to  be  the 
best  for  hares,  and  every  few  minutes  one 
goes  bounding  out  from  a  furrow  and 
vaulting  from  one  hummock  to  another. 
Occasionally  one  will  jump  wild  but  the 
dogs  usually  manage  to  get  him  back  to  one 
of  the  hunters.  All  at  once  the  clappers 
stop  their  racket  and  every  one  looks  to  see 
what  game  is  coming.  A  couple  of  big 
wood-pigeons  are  bearing  for  us  bow  on. 
Nearer  they  come  and  larger  they  grow, 
until  it  is  too  late  for  them  to  pass — put 
their  tails  as  hard  to  port  as  they  may. 
Their  white-lined  wings  go  with  misty 
speed  and  they  spring  away  from  each 
other  overhead.  Three  or  four  guns 
belch  forth  rolling  volumes  of  smoke,  and 
the  hurtling  storm  of  lead  perforates 
atmosphere  and  pigeons  alike.  Down 
come  both  birds  together,  twisting  and 
whirling  and  losing  downy  feathers  as 
they  fall.  Little  straw-colored  Harold 
runs  out  and  brings  in  the  biggest  bird, 
wiping  the  blood  from  its  bill  with  his 
fingers  and  then  wiping  his  fingers  on  his 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  161 

pantaloons — just  as  he  does  for  his  own 
chubby  nose.  He  is  anxious  to  carry  the 
bird  and  I  tell  him  he  must  be  very  careful 
with  it  as  I  want  the  skin  to  stuff.  Such 
obedient  carefulness  as  he  displays  one 
seldom  sees  in  a  boy,  and  when  he  is 
trudging  through  a  wet  spot  he  holds 
the  bird  over  his  head  where  the  saw- 
grass  won't  muss  it,  until  tripping  up  on 
a  willow  root  the  poor  little  fellow  snaps 
shut  like  a  jackknife  and  pokes  the 
pigeon  so  deep  down  in  the  mud  with 
one  knee  that  the  saw-grass  turns  green 
with  envy. 

Here  comes  a  short-eared  owl  from  the 
marsh.  Swinging  along  with  soft  noise- 
less flip  flops  he  skims  the  perfumed  air 
from  the  aster  tops,  and  carelessly  wafts 
himself  into  our  dangerous  midst.  The 
opportunity  is  too  good  an  one  for  Sven- 
sen  to  resist. 

The  clappers  are  again  quiet  as  a  mal- 
lard duck  flying  high  passes  over  the  line 
on  his  way  to  some  small  inland  pond  which 
he  knows  about.  Half  a  pound  of  shot 
goes  up  after  him,  but  he  points  his  bill 


i 62  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danskc  Fjcldc. 

toward  the  heavens  and  winnows  the  air 
finer  than  ever  with  his  stout  whistling 
pinions.  Hardly  has  the  smoke  stopped 
sifting  through  the  poplar  sprouts  ahead 
before  a  pair  of  pretty  little  blue  doves 
dart  past  like  arrows.  One,  two,  three 
shots  and  one  dove  is  down  ;  four,  five, 
six,  seven  shots  and  the  second  one 
tumbles  into  the  clover.  How  smooth 
their  feathers  are,  and  what  delicately 
moulded  heads  and  dainty  red  feet  they 
have ! 

"  Smukke  dove  !  Saa  lille  og  nydelig," 
says  big  Waldemar,  as  he  brings  one  in 
in  his  hand. 

It  does  n't  take  long  for  the  sun  to 
reach  the  noon-mark  in  Danish  November, 
and  it  gets  there  before  one  really  feels 
that  Phoebus  dare  stand  up  straight.  A 
wagon  which  has  been  following  us  slowly 
through  the  meadows  now  drives  up  and 
the  hunters  and  boys  brush  each  others' 
ears  with  their  elbows  as  they  help  them- 
selves to  the  cheese  and  beer  and  boiled 
eggs,  and  other  luxuries  which  the  wagon 
contains. 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  163 

A  small  ravine,  on  the  grassy  banks  of 
which  Vikings  probably  sat  on  grasshop- 
pers and  sharp  stones  just  as  we  do 
to-day,  runs  through  the  fields  near 
our  halting  place.  We  pull  the  crooked, 
stiff  hares  out  straight,  smooth  their 
fur,  and  lay  them  in  heaps  by  our  sides. 
We  toss  lunch  tidbits  to  the  dogs,  light 
pipes  and  cigars,  kick  our  heels  into 
the  sod,  throw  egg-shells  at  the  boys, 
and  joke  and  laugh  until  the  uneasy 
members  of  the  party  suggest  that  we  be 
off  again.  The  dogs  notice  the  first 
movement,  and  in  exuberant  spirits  leap 
over  their  masters,  and  over  each  other, 
and  bark  in  good  plain  English.  This  time 
the  line  of  march  extends  down  towards 
the  sea.  More  hares  spring  up  and  die, 
ephemerally.  Another  short-eared  owl 
and  another  pair  of  doves  find  that  our 
influence  was  more  reaching  than  they  had 
thought.  We  are  approaching  a  series  of 
sand  knolls  which  are  covered  with  tall, 
dry,  sparsely  growing  grass.  The  clap- 
pers remain  quiet.  A  word  of  caution  is 
passed  along  the  line. 


1 64  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

Hardly  have  our  feet  begun  to  crunch 
the  loose  sand  when  a  covey  of  twenty 
partridges  bursts  out  of  the  grass  with  an 
explosive  rush  of  wings,  and  spreading 
their  ruddy  tails  widely,  and  crying  quirlp- 
quirlp,  quirlp-quirlp,  in  shrill,  quail-like 
tones,  they  lengthen  out  into  a  straggling 
flock  and  head  for  the  marsh.  Poulsen, 
who  is  nearest  to  the  birds,  coolly  stops 
one  of  them  with  each  barrel,  but  Iversen, 
who  tries  to  kill  the  whole  bevy  at  once, 
fails  to  get  any  of  it.  Two  men  off  on 
the  left  pick  out  four  passing  birds,  and 
the  rest  of  the  partridges,  after  a  rapid 
flight  of  a  few  hundred  yards,  sail  off  on 
curved  wings  and  scatter  singly  among 
the  tussocks  of  grass.  A  bird  which 
stayed  behind  flies  up  almost  at  my  feet 
with  a  startling  whirr,  but  he  joins  the 
minor  part  of  the  flock.  The  scattered 
patridges  lie  in  a  territory  which  belongs 
to  a  distant  part  of  our  line. 

The  sand  knolls  crossed,  we  reach  the 
marsh,  but  on  we  go  through  the  sloppy 
reeds  and  splashy  grass  holes  as  though 
we  were  on  a  board  floor.  In  goes  little 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  165 

Ivan  just  ahead  of  me,  splattering  the 
water  with  his  heavy  shoes,  and  sprink- 
ling it  over  his  fox-skin  cap  and  home- 
made blue  blouse.  In  go  Bjoerken  and 
Jansen  and  Raavad.  Out  go  a  snipe 
and  a  fox  and  a  duck.  Snipe  jump  up  on 
all  sides  and  zig-zag  off  "  skaiching  "  husk- 
ily, just  as  they  do  when  Culver  and  1 
flush  them  from  the  rich  juicy  ground  of 
a  sweet  New  Jersey  swamp. 

The  marshes  here  look  very  much  like 
our  own  marshes  at  home,  and  any 
one  not  a  botanist  would  have  difficulty 
in  determining  from  the  surroundings 
whether  he  were  in  New  Jersey  or  in  this 
far  north  Sjaelland.  The  ducks  are  rather 
wild  and  they  usually  manage  to  get  out 
of  the  way  of  our  noisy  party  before  we 
get  within  range  of  them.  Now  and  then 
a  single  mallard  will  lie  concealed  under 
the  fallen  sedge  until  we  are  close  upon 
him,  and  then  with  loud  quacks  and  swish- 
ing wings  he  tries  to  escape. 

The  daylight  is  fading  rapidly  and  by 
four  o'clock  it  will  be  too  dark  to  shoot. 
Working  back  toward  the  hills  in  broken 


1 66  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

line  we  pass  the  house  of  a  peasant  family 
and  my  friend  Dr.  Warming  and  I  stop 
for  a  moment  to  see  the  place.  The  one- 
story  house  with  whitewashed  stone  and 
mortar  walls  is  built  to  surround  a  square 
court-yard.  A  single  large  gateway  leads 
through  the  south  wall  of  the  building  into 
this  court,  in  the  middle  of  which  latter 
a  high  wooden  pump  is  surrounded  by 
ducks  and  geese  and  chickens.  The  court 
is  cobble-stoned,  and  pretty  green  mosses 
run  off  along  the  damp  crevices  between 
the  stones.  Several  doors  open  into  this 
central  yard.  The  few  small  windows  are 
set  deeply  in  the  walls  of  the  house.  The 
high-peaked  roof  of  two-foot-thick  straw 
thatching  is  covered  with  broad  patches  of 
rich  green  moss.  Part  of  the  house  is  the 
barn,  and  the  horses,  cows,  wagons, 
poultry  and  family  all  go  and  come 
through  the  opening  in  the  south  wall  of 
the  building.  Two  or  three  dark  Norway 
spruce  trees  spread  their  bottle-green 
branches  over  the  house,  and  the  contrast 
with  the  whitewashed  walls  is  a  striking 
one.  Several  lead-colored  crows  flew  up 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  167 

on  the  thirty-foot-high  straw  stack  by  the 
barn  as  we  approached,  and  they  now  sat 
cawing  at  us  within  easy  stone  shot. 

We  are  greeted  by  the  children,  who 
pull  off  their  caps  politely  and  then  rattle 
their  wooden  shoes  on  the  cobbles  as  they 
run  off  to  their  mammas  in  the  doorways. 
Strong,  handsome,  yellow-haired  children, 
with  bright  faces  and  clear  gray  eyes.  I 
looked  in  at  a  school  window  one  day  and 
the  whole  room  seemed  to  be  lighted  up 
with  a  mellow  glow  of  yellow  hair.  All 
Danish  children  have  to  be  strong.  The 
weak  ones  die  off  when  they  try  to 
learn  the  language,  and  like  Connecticut 
River  shad,  only  the  most  robust  are  able 
to  surmount  the  difficulties  which  beset 
their  way. 

Doctor  and  I,  on  invitation,  step  into  a 
simply-furnished  room,  with  white-sanded 
floor,  and  sit  down  by  the  square  table  in 
straight-backed  chairs.  Our  host  is  de- 
lighted when  he  hears  that  I  am  a  Yankee, 
and  he  wishes  to  bring  out  the  house- 
hold penatesin  bottles.  Turning  to  little 
Maren,  who  stands  bashfully  covering  up 


1 68  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

two-thirds  of  her  grin  with  a  fold  of  her 
mother's  dress,  I  say  in  my  most  enticing 
Danish,  "  Kom  him  lille  pige,  og  sit  paa 
mit  knae.  Jeg  skal  ikke  gjoere  digondt." 
But  my  pronunciation  gives  her  a  terrible 
fright,  and,  disappearing  from  sight  in 
the  dress  like  a  young  kangaroo  in  its 
mamma's  waist,  she  begins  to  sob.  A 
looking-glass  hangs  on  the  wall,  together 
with  two  or  three  highly  colored  litho- 
graphs representing  "The  Girl  of  the 
Period,"  "The  Old  Oaken  Bucket"  and 
"  The  Pleasures  of  the  Country,"  etc. 
Several  mottoes  worked  on  perforated 
paper  with  bright-colored  worsted  are 
stuck  up  here  and  there,  but  one  can't 
read  the  words  any  better  than  he  can 
read  the  same  in  worsted  English.  I 
guess  likely  they  say  "  God  bless  our 
home,"  and  things  like  that.  A  large 
Jerome  clock  stands  on  top  of  the  un- 
painted  cupboard  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  and  from  poles  overhead  are  hung 
dried  herbs.  A  wooden  bracket  by  the 
looking-glass  holds  the  usual  comb,  which 
needs  false  teeth,  and  the  loose-backed 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  169 

hair  brush,  which  has  spanked  some  boy 
too  hard. 

It  is  time  to  go.  As  I  step  to  the  stone 
threshold,  the  lord  of  the  manor  extends 
a  hand  like  the  hand  of  Providence,  and 
engulfing  my  own  in  a  maelstrom  of  fin- 
gers, he  works  my  arm  up  and  down  in 
the  same  manner  as  he  does  an  eight-foot 
pump-handle  out  in  the  court.  I  escape 
in  fairly  good  condition,  however,  and 
amid  profuse  good-byes  we  go  out  through 
the  big  gate  and  into  the  field  of  tall,  curly- 
leaved  green  cabbage  to  join  the  straggling 
hunters  who  are  preparing  a  line  for  one 
more  trip  across  the  fields. 

All  is  ready,  and  together  we  advance 
in  imposing  array,  each  man  anxious  to 
add  just  a  little  more  game  to  his  list. 
Every  few  minutes  a  big  hare  makes  a 
sudden  spurt,  and  tries  to  kick  the  world 
around  faster  on  its  axis,  but  he  is  stopped 
in  time  to  save  the  time  of  day.  A  flock 
of  partridges  make  the  trembling  dry 
grass  wave  in  little  swirls,  as  the  birds, 
with  a  mighty  spring,  launch  out  into  the 
air  right  near  us.  Glass-ball  shooters 


i/o  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

would  have  instinctively  yelled  out 
"  broke "  if  they  had  seen  the  feathers 
start  when  four  or  five  of  the  birds  sud- 
denly became  noiseless  in  mid-air. 

It  is  almost  dark  when  we  reach  the 
road  and  take  a  short  cut  for  the  old  inn 
of  Valdby  Kro.  A  fox  runs  out  into  the 
field  in  the  distance,  and  I  make  every 
one  laugh  by  my  pronunciation  of  his 
Danish  name  "raev."  They  say  that  the 
word  which  I  use  sounds  like  the  Danish 
name  for  a  boot  target.  Two  or  three  of 
us  try  to  scramble  over  the  rickety  fence 
at  the  back  of  the  inn,  but  a  sample  dog, 
— a  Great  Dane, — is  waiting  for  us  on  the 
other  side,  and  as  my  friend  says  that  it 
hurts  to  have  a  leg  pulled  off  by  a  dog  of 
this  size,  we  decide  to  disappoint  the  dog, 
and  let  him  wait  for  somebody  else.  I  don't 
care  how  prosperous  a  hotel  may  be,  it  is 
bad  policy  for  the  landlord  to  keep  a  dog 
which  destroys  customers  before  they  have 
paid  any  bills.  Inside  the  hotel  guns  are 
stacked  and  hung  up  in  the  reception 
room,  and  hats  and  heavy  coats  follow 
suit.  Over  in  one  corner  is  a  great  heap 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.   171 

of  hares,  boys,  birds,  and  dogs.  Every- 
one is  happy,  and  securely  seated  with 
his  glass  of  lager — of  cool,  cream-foamed 
lager  which  trickles  over  the  edge  of  the 
mug,  and  mingles  with  the  misty  con- 
densed moisture  on  the  outside — is  telling 
his  neighbor  confidentially  just  how  it 
was  that  he  had  the  good  luck  to  kill  most 
of  the  game  bagged  during  the  day. 

A  smile  born  of  light  hearts  and  lighter 
stomachs  seems  to  flash  across  the  room 
when  the  dining-room  bell  gives  the  sig- 
nal for  the  shuffling  of  heavy  boots  to 
commence.  The  tables  are  creaking  with 
solid  sections  of  brown,  juicy,  steaming 
roasts,  and  piles  of  mealy  potatoes  envel- 
oped in  hot  fog,  and  long  white  platters  of 
whole  salmon  through  whose  tender  torn 
skin  the  pink  flakes  and  streaks  of  white 
fat  look  all  ready  for  the  limpid  golden 
butter-sauce  which  stands  in  the  brimming 
full  dishes  near  by.  Tall  handsome  Dan- 
ish girls  are  running  hither  and  thither  with 
chicken  soup  for  this  man,  and  hare  soup 
for  that  man,  and  extricating  order  from 
the  chaos  on  the  table  with  a  marvellous 


r  72  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde. 

degree  of  skill.  Good  nature  is  rampant, 
and  the  fast  delivered  hearty  speeches  are 
followed  by  rousing  echoing  cheers.  Cries 
of  "  skol  !  skol ! "  follow  every  toast  in 
which  the  Yankee  is  mentioned,  with  a 
vigor  which  shows  how  deep  and  real  their 
feelings  of  hospitality  are,  and  men  come 
from  the  distant  tables  to  express  friendly 
sentiments  toward  America  and  Ameri- 
cans in  general. 

An  hour  passes  by,  and  the  tide  of 
speech  gradually  subsides.  The  stage  of 
quiet  enjoyment  is  ushered  in  with  the 
blue-flaming  plum-pudding ;  and  coffee 
with  cream  melts  all  dispositions  into  one 
easy  flowing  current  of  serene  content- 
ment. Snatches  of  Danish  song  which 
have  been  idly  travelling  about  the  table 
for  several  minutes,  begin  to  join  forces  as 
we  light  fragrant  cigars  and  pipes,  and 
lean  back  lazily  and  stretchful  in  our 
chairs. 

While  others  sing,  I  pull  from  my 
hunting  coat-pocket  the  old  battered 
meerschaum,  and  fill  it  with  yellow,  fragile 
grained  "Lone  Jack."  That  dear  old 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.  173 

meerschaum  that  I  have  smoked  by  my 
campfire  in  the  Adirondack  forest,  while 
the  birch  log  sizzled  and  snapped,  and  fit- 
ful gleams  of  red  flame  lighted  up  the 
form  of  the  strong  antlered  buck  which 
was  drawn  up  on  the  moss  by  my  side. 

The  same  fond  pipe  that  I  have  smoked 
in  the  evening  light  while  I  sat  with  Sam 
on  the  threshold  of  a  Pennsylvania  farm- 
house, and  the  October  breeze  whirled 
the  dead  leaves  about  our  day's  load  of 
ruffed  grouse,  woodcock,  and  quail,  and 
toyed  with  the  wavy  locks  of  our  tired 
and  sleepy  setters. 

The  same  beloved  meerschaum  that  I 
have  smoked  on  a  Connecticut  June 
noontime  in  a  sunny,  ferny  corner  of  the 
rail  fence  among  the  white  birches,  where 
the  fresh  growing  grass  on  the  bank 
stirred  shadows  into  the  clear  waters  of 
Poohtatook  Brook  with  every  zephyr,  and 
the  brown  thrush  in  the  willow-top  asked 
the  buttercup-dancing,  air-prancing,  soul- 
entrancing  bobolink  to  call  me  away  from 
my  reverie. 

The  same  quieting   pipe  that   I   have 


1 74  En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelcle. 

smoked  in  the  midwinter  icy  blast  in 
Great  South  Bay,  while  the  staunch  sloop 
plunged  and  strained  at  her  anchor  among 
the  rushing,  voice-smothering,  white- 
capped  waves,  while  the  wind  whistled 
and  hissed  through  the  rigging,  the  boom 
creaked  and  swung  with  every  lurch,  and 
the  heap  of  ducks  exchanged  places  with 
the  bushel  of  oysters  on  the  cabin  floor. 
While  the  thundering  breakers  on  the 
outer  beach,  furious  in  the  easterly  gale, 
bellowed  and  groaned  in  hoarse  monotone 
between  the  reverberations  from  the  tons 
of  black  and  whitening  billows  rolling  in 
mighty  front  high  upon  the  sand  bulwarks, 
and  dark  night  clouds,  all  ragged  and  torn, 
drifted  low  and  swiftly  overhead. 

Every  whiff  of  smoke  from  the  pipe  is 
richly  flavored  with  the  essence  of  old 
associations,  but  I  am  precipitated  back 
into  Denmark  as  one  of  the  party,  a 
gigantic,  red  faced,  good-natured  hunter, 
mounts  a  platform  at  one  end  of  the 
dining-room,  and  prepares  to  auction  off 
our  game  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  peo- 
ple of  the  village.  This  is  a  customary 


En  Klapjagt  Paa  Danske  Fjelde.   1/5 

proceeding  after  such  a  hunt  as  we  have 
had,  and  the  bidding  is  spirited,  some  of 
the  hares  bringing  four  or  five  times  their 
market  price. 

The  auctioneer  gets  one  krone  (twenty- 
seven  cents)  for  one  of  his  assistants 
whom  he  holds  up  before  the  audience, 
and  a  smaller  man  who  is  held  out  at  half 
arm's-length  by  the  big  one,  is  knocked 
down  to  a  bidder  at  ti  oere  (two  and  a 
half  cents). 


ONE  DEER. 

DICK  and  I  were  camping  at  a  beau- 
tiful lake  in  the  Adirondacks.  It 
was  rather  late  in  the  season  and  the  deer 
that  a  few  weeks  previously  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  coming  to  the  edges  of  the 
streams  and  lakes  to  nip  the  lily-buds  and 
wade  about  in  the  shallow  water,  were 
seldom  seen.  Occasionally  an  old  buck 
would  come  out  at  evening  and  take  a 
stroll  along  the  sandy  margin  of  the  lake, 
adding  for  the  moment  a  touch  of  wilder 
beauty  to  the  dark  forest  background,  and 
after  standing  proudly  at  some  rocky 
point  and  surveying  the  scene,  would  dis- 
appear again  into  the  woods. 

A  small  bay  half  way  up  the  lake 
seemed  to  be  a  favorite  place  for  the, 
deer  as  innumerable  tracks  were  always 

to  be  seen  in  the  sand  along  the  shore, 
176 


One  Deer.  177 

and  one  afternoon  when  we  were  almost 
out  of  venison  in  camp  I  suggested  to 
Dick  that  it  would  be  the  proper  thing 
for  us  to  make  a  trip  in  the  evening  to 
this  place. 

The  wood  for  the  camp-fire  was  cut  and 
piled  at  a  convenient  distance  from  the 
smouldering  back-log  all  ready  for  a  glo- 
rious blaze  on  our  return,  and  just  before 
sundown  I  took  my  place  in  the  bow  of 
our  little  boat  with  the  Ballard  rifle  across 
my  knees,  while  Dick  took  the  stern  with 
the  paddle. 

Long  shadows  were  reaching  out  from 
the  big  pines  and  hemlocks  on  the  west 
shore,  the  valleys  were  already  in  dark- 
ness, and  the  long  red  rays  of  the  fast 
setting  sun  streaming  through  the  tree- 
tops  illumined  the  rest  of  the  forest  with 
a  hazy  evening  light.  Great  tree  trunks 
lay  partly  sunken  in  the  dark  clear  water, 
their  arms  reaching  grimly  out,  and  quiet 
reigned  over  all,  the  paddle  in  Dick's 
skilled  hand  making  not  the  slightest 
sound. 

As  we  silently  glided  along,  a  loon  far 


178  One  Deer. 

up  the  lake  caught  sight  of  us,  and  his 
wild  querulous  call  ringing  through  the 
forest  was  answered  by  echo  and  sent 
wavering  from  cliff  to  cliff.  Again  and 
again  the  weird  cry  echoed  and  re-echoed 
from  the  mountain  sides  and  was  sent 
from  shore  to  shore,  and  an  eagle  soaring 
high  overhead  answered  with  its  screams. 
The  reverberations  ceased,  and  the  still- 
ness was  broken  only  by  the  song  of  a 
happy  cross-bill  within  the  short  range 
of  his  little  voice.  A  mink  came  swim- 
ming alongside  of  us,  his  bright  mis- 
chievous eyes  trying  to  make  out  what  we 
were.  Suddenly  an  otter's  head  appeared 
above  the  water,  and  soon  another,  and 
another,  and  in  the  most  amusing  way 
they  bobbed  up  and  down  and  spit  at  us 
in  their  spiteful  way.  For  two  or  three 
minutes  the  otters  swam  along  ahead  of 
us,  diving  and  appearing  again,  and  finally 
they  disappeared  all  at  once,  probably 
going  to  pursue  their  calling  of  catching 
the  big  trout  which  abounded  in  the  lake. 
Gradually  we  neared  the  little  bay,  and 
as  we  rounded  the  rocky  point  Dick 


One  Deer.  179 

stopped  paddling.  The  boat  glided  slowly 
along  with  its  own  motion  as  we  care- 
fully scanned  every  fallen  hemlock  for  a 
sight  of  red  hair,  and  in  a  moment  I  heard 
a  low  whisper,  "  See  that  buck  on  the 
right ! "  at  the  same  instant  catching  sight 
of  a  pair  of  horns  behind  a  stump  that 
stood  quite  a  way  out  in  the  water,  and 
not  more  than  ten  rods  from  us.  The  old 
fellow  had  evidently  been  watching  us  just 
a  little  longer  than  we  had  been  watching 
him,  and  had  taken  good  pains  to  keep 
his  eyes  over  the  stump  and  very  little 
of  the  rest  of  his  body  in  sight.  I  felt  the 
tremor  of  the  boat  again  as  Dick  cautious- 
ly plied  the  paddle,  and  we  tried  to  move 
to  a  position  where  I  could  see  enough  to 
shoot  at,  but  the  buck  knew  what  we  were 
about,  and  kept  backing  around  until  he 
could  go  no  further,  when  with  five  or  six 
long  bounds,  with  flag  raised,  he  made  for 
a  windfall  and  stopped  behind  it  for  a 
minute,  snorting  and  stamping,  before 
taking  his  final  leap  into  the  underbrush. 
He  stood  tail  toward  me,  with  his  head 
turned  and  looking  over  his  shoulder, 


180  One  Deer. 

supposing  that  he  was  well  protected 
by  the  branches,  but  there  was  where 
he  made  a  miscalculation,  for  at  least  a 
square  foot  of  red  was  in  sight.  Quickly 
I  levelled  the  rifle,  and  as  the  echoes  rang 
through  the  forest  the  buck  made  one 
grand  leap  and  stumbled  as  he  struck  the 
ground,  rolling  clear  over,  with  feet  kick- 
ing wildly  in  the  air.  In  an  instant  he 
was  up  again  and  had  disappeared.  A 
few  quick  strokes  with  the  paddle  toward 
shore,  and  Dick  jumped  out  and  started 
in  the  direction  that  the  deer  had  taken, 
stopping  long  enough  to  motion  to  me 
that  he  found  blood. 

For  several  minutes  I  waited  in  sus- 
pense. It  was  fast  growing  darker,  and 
the  minutes  were  getting  twice  as  long  as 
in  a  stopped  watch,  when  I  heard  Dick 
call  from  a  point  along  the  shore  above 
me.  The  paddle  was  no  longer  needed, 
so  I  pulled  out  the  oars  and,  getting  them 
into  the  locks,  rowed  as  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible toward  Dick.  He  had  tracked  the 
buck  to  the  water's  edge,  and  was  just 
saying  that  we  would  find  him  mortally 


One  Deer.  181 

wounded  along  the  shore  somewhere, 
when,  with  a  great  snapping  of  branches 
and  splashing  of  water,  the  red  fellow 
sprang  out  of  a  windfall  into  the  lake  and 
started  to  swim  for  a  little  island  near  by. 
Dick  jumped  into  the  bow,  and  I  pulled 
the  oars  with  a  vengeance,  not  daring  to 
look  around,  but  guided  by  the  hoarse 
breathing  of  the  panting  deer  as  he  swam. 
Rapidly  we  neared  him,  and  just  as  Dick 
called  out  "  Right  oar,  quick  ! "  the  boat 
gave  a  lurch,  and  I  knew  that  he  had  our 
game  by  the  tail.  At  that  moment  the 
handles  of  the  oars  came  against  my  ab- 
domen with  a  jerk  and  pressed  so  hard 
that  I  could  n't  catch  a  breath  for  the  life 
of  me.  "Hold  up,  Dick!"  I  gasped. 
"  For  H-e-a-v-e-n-'s  s-a-k-e  hold  up  ! " 
The  oars  kept  pressing  so  hard  that  I 
could  not  get  out  another  word,  until 
Dick,  roaring  with  laughter,  reached 
around  and  threw  one  of  the  oars  out  of 
its  rowlock.  In  my  excitement  I  had  for- 
gotten that  Dick  was  not  the  motive 
power  at  the  bow,  and  that  the  fast 
swimming  buck  was  the  cause  of  bring- 


1 82  One  Deer. 

ing  into  practice  a  very  simple  problem  in 
levers. 

We  had  only  a  few  yards  more  to  go 
before  shallow  water  would  be  reached, 
and  picking  up  the  rifle,  I  intended  to  stop 
our  locomotive,  but  the  boat  was  un- 
steady, and  I  fired  the  bullet  directly  into 
the  heart  of  the  Adirondack  wilderness. 
Another  bullet  went  on  the  same  errand- 
less  mission.  We  were  almost  in  the 
shallow  water,  and  shutting  my  teeth  to- 
gether with  a  firm  resolve  to  hold  steady, 
I  sent  a  bullet  through  the  neck  of  the 
deer,  and  with  a  convulsive  start  he  sent 
the  spray  flying  in  every  direction,  and 
then  lay  kicking  upon  the  water. 

Towing  the  deer  to  the  shore,  we  got 
him  into  the  boat,  and  as  I  took  the  bow 
again,  Dick  took  up  the  paddle  and  we 
started  for  camp. 

How  fine  the  old  buck  looked  in  the 
evening  light,  with  his  white  belly  up  and 
legs  gracefully  bent,  as  his  head  lay  be- 
tween my  knees  and  I  stroked  his  smooth 
ears  and  opened  the  dark  eyes  and  pat- 
ted his  neck. 


One  Deer.  183 

As  we  neared  camp  the  stars  were 
sending  silvery  gleams  over  the  ripples  in 
our  wake.  A  glimpse  of  the  back-log 
burning  low  showed  us  where  to  land,  and 
the  smell  of  the  smoke  hanging  heavily 
over  the  water  was  a  reminder  of  the 
comforts  in  store. 

The  boat  grated  on  the  pebbly  bottom, 
and  jumping  out,  we  rolled  out  our  game 
and  dragged  him  the  short  distance  to 
camp.  Lichen-covered  sticks  were  soon 
snapping  and  roaring  on  the  camp-fire, 
and  the  forest  around  was  all  aglow  as  the 
sparks  arose  with  the  smoke  and  floated 
off  among  the  branches  of  the  trees  over- 
head. The  red  embers  settled  in  a  ruddy 
heap,  and  the  last  piece  of  venison  from 
the  deer  which  Dick  had  killed  a  few  days 
previously,  and  half  a  dozen  big  trout  were 
pulled  from  the  moss  by  the  spring  where 
we  had  stored  them  ready  for  use.  As 
they  broiled  and  browned  before  the  birch 
logs  the  juice  trickled  out  and  fell  sizzling 
among  the  coals,  sending  fragrant  aromas 
in  every  direction.  Our  birch-bark  plates 
were  filled  as  only  the  rich  can  afford 


1 84  One  Deer. 

to  fill  them  in  the  city.  And  then,  in 
a  condition  of  supreme  contentment  I 
leaned  my  back  against  a  giant  pine, 
crossed  my  feet  over  the  buck's  glossy 
flank  and  lit  my  pipe.  Dick  stretched 
himself  out  at  full  length  upon  the  moss 
near  by,  and  as  the  blue  puffs  floated 
around  our  heads  we  told  of  former  ex- 
ploits with  deer  and  bears  until  the  pipes 
and  the  camp-fire  burned  low. 


A    BIT    OF    GROUSE    HUNTER'S 
LORE. 

THE  game  laws  of  New  York  allow 
ruffed  grouse  shooting  between  the 
first  day  of  September  and  the  first  day 
of  January,  and  although  the  young  birds 
are  powerful  and  quite  knowing  early  in 
the  season,  they  are  not  much  hunted  un- 
til the  autumn  leaves  are  falling  and  the 
cool,  invigorating  air  allows  the  hunter  to 
climb  and  tramp  over  windfalls  and  rocks 
with  comfort.  During  the  months  of 
September  and  October  the  young  grouse 
have  comparatively  short  tails  and  small 
ruffs,  so  that  they  are  readily  distinguished 
from  the  old  birds,  but  by  the  latter  end 
of  the  season  many  of  them  are  in  perfect 
feather  except  that  they  lack  the  sheen, 
like  that  of  polished  mahogany,  which  can 
be  observed  when  the  back  of  an  old  bird 
185 


1 86    A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore. 

is  held  in  the  proper  light.  The  very 
large  birds  with  iridescent  black  ruffs  are 
usually  cocks,  although  it  is  frequently 
difficult  to  find  any  marks  of  differentia- 
tion in  plumage  which  will  distinguish 
them  from  hens,  and  hunters  are  very 
often  mistaken  as  to  the  sex  of  any  par- 
ticular ruffed  grouse.  The  best  test  with- 
out dissection  is  perhaps  that  afforded  by 
spreading  the  tail  to  its  full  extent.  If 
the  two  external  tail  feathers  can  be 
brought  into  a  straight  line  with  each 
other  before  the  other  feathers  of  the  tail 
separate  from  each  other  at  the  margins, 
the  possessor  of  that  tail  is  in  all  proba- 
bility a  male  bird.  The  feathers  of  the 
tail  of  the  hen  bird  usually  separate  from 
each  other  while  the  two  external  tail 
feathers  are  making  an  obtuse  angle.  It 
is  customary  for  hunters  to  suppose  that 
the  birds  with  brown  or  chocolate-colored 
ruffs  are  females,  but  the  color  of  the  ruff 
is  not  a  distinctive  sex  mark. 

The  general  coloration  of  ruffed  grouse 
varies  greatly  in  different  localities,  the 
"partridges"  from  northern  New  Eng- 


A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore.    187 

land,  for  instance,  being  almost  invariably 
ashy  gray  in  general  effect,  the  color  of 
the  tail  being  most  pronounced.  In  Penn- 
sylvania the  "pheasants"  give  an  impres- 
sion of  reddish  brown  coloring,  and  the 
tails  of  these  birds  are  beautifully  rich  in 
their  reddish  elements.  In  New  York 
State  we  find  red  birds  and  gray  birds  in 
about  equal  numbers,  and  in  one  brood 
we  find  individuals  representing  both  ex- 
tremes in  such  color  variation,  just  as  is 
the  case  among  the  screech  owls.  Ruffed 
grouse  from  Oregon  and  from  Texas  are 
smaller  and  much  lighter  than  their  East- 
ern relatives.  Late  in  the  autumn  the 
grouse  develop  a  row  of  narrow  movable 
projecting  scales  along  the  sides  of  the 
toes  for  aids  in  walking  upon  slippery 
snow  and  ice,  and  these  scutellse,  as  they 
are  called,  drop  off  when  the  snow  melts 
in  the  spring.  The  average  weight  of 
full-grown  Eastern  grouse  is  about  twenty- 
three  ounces,  but  this  weight  varies  two 
or  three  ounces  in  accordance  with  the 
character  and  abundance  of  the  food  sup- 
ply. The  food  in  the  autumn  includes 


1 88    A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore. 

almost  all  berries  that  are  accessible  in 
any  given  locality,  but  sumac  and  cedar 
berries  are  not  usually  eaten  until  winter. 
The  grouse  eat  beechnuts,  acorns,  chest- 
nuts, mushrooms,  vetch  pods  and  seeds, 
witch-hazel  flowers,  and  many  succulent 
leaves.  They  rarely  touch  wheat,  maize, 
oats,  or  barley,  but  of  buckwheat  they  are 
inordinately  fond,  and  early  in  the  season 
they  strip  off  the  flowers  and  immature 
grains,  and  continue  to  glean  in  the  buck- 
wheat fields  until  the  stubble  is  deeply 
covered  with  snow. 

Hunters  who  are  familiar  with  the  birds' 
habits  beat  the  fences  and  deep-furrowed, 
plowed  ground  all  about  the  buckwheat 
fields  that  are  not  too  far  removed  from 
the  woods,  and  find  there  many  birds  that 
the  sportsman  in  the  brush  knows  nothing 
about.  Grouse  are  fond  of  tearing  the 
fleshy  fruit  of  the  skunk  cabbage  to  pieces 
in  order  to  get  at  the  seeds  and  pulp. 
They  devour  the  fruit  of  all  of  the  species 
of  wild  grapes  with  avidity,  and  a  covey 
of  grouse  feeding  among  the  tangled  fes- 
toons of  grape-vines  furnishes  an  inspirit- 


A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore.    189 

ing  spectacle  for  one  who  knows  how  to 
approach  them  with  due  caution.  The 
leaves  of  the  bishop's  cap  (  Tiarella  cordi- 
folia  and  T.  nuda)  are  as  staple  an  article 
of  diet  with  ruffed  grouse  as  bread  and 
butter  are  for  the  American  citizen,  and 
at  all  seasons  of  the  year  fragments  of  the 
rough-lobed  leaves  may  be  found  in  their 
crops ;  even  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
articles  of  diet  at  times.  During  the  winter 
the  food  consists  principally  of  the  buds  of 
birch,  poplar,  and  maple  trees,  the  leaves 
and  berries  of  the  wintergreen,  and  the 
leaves  of  the  bishop's  caps  ;  and  as  there 
are  very  few  days  during  the  winter  when 
grouse  cannot  find  an  abundance  of  some 
one  of  these  forms  of  provender  they  are 
almost  always  in  good  condition  and  "as 
plump  as  partridges."  Kalmia  leaves,  which 
are  sometimes  eaten  by  them  in  winter,  are 
said  on  good  authority  to  make  the  flesh 
temporarily  poisonous  for  man,  and  the 
fact  that  the  birds'  food  directly  affects  their 
flesh  is  exemplified  in  the  delicious  aro- 
matic flavor  of  grouse  that  have  been  feed- 
ing extensively  upon  birch  buds  and  win- 


190   A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore. 

tergreens,  the  grateful  odor  pervading  the 
whole  house  when  such  birds  are  so 
unfortunate  as  to  get  upon  the  hot 
kitchen  stove  just  before  dinner  time. 

Ruffed  grouse  are  as  neat  in  their 
habits  as  such  proud  and  self-respecting 
birds  ought  to  be,  and  they  are  very  fond 
of  dusting  in  the  wallow  holes  which  they 
make  in  the  dry  dust  of  crumbling  logs  in 
the  woods.  Wherever  the  grouse  live 
we  are  so  certain  to  find  their  dusting 
holes  that  the  hunter  wastes  no  time  in 
the  woods  in  which  the  crumbling  logs 
have  not  been  thus  utilized  by  the  elite. 
During  the  day  the  birds  spend  most  of 
their  time  in  the  brushy  edges  of  the 
woods  and  in  the  brambly  gullies  that 
extend  out  in  the  fields,  and  if  there  are 
stumps  near  at  hand  in  the  open,  the 
grouse  are  fond  of  running  out  about  them 
and  hiding  there  during  the  middle  of  the 
day.  We  should  naturally  expect  to  find 
the  grouse  on  the  sunniest  hillsides  when 
the  weather  is  very  cold,  but  they  seem  to 
be  rather  indifferent  to  the  temperature  of 
their  surroundings  and  the  covey  is  almost 


A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore,    191 

as  likely  to  be  found  in  the  dreary  north- 
facing  ravine  as  on  the  warm  southern 
exposures.  When  they  are  in  company  the 
birds  keep  up  a  constant  talking  to  each 
other,  but  in  low  voices  as  though  fearful 
of  being  overheard.  There  are  querulous 
notes  from  the  spinsters  and  solemn  warn- 
ings from  the  dignified  matrons  when  the 
obstreperous  young  cocks  challenge  each 
other  to  a  wrestle,  but  the  loudest  vocal 
expression  of  the  ruffed  grouse  is  the 
clucking  and  squealing  of  a  bird  that  has 
lain  long  to  the  dog,  when,  running  like  a 
rabbit  out  from  under  the  brush-heap,  he 
bustles  on  roaring  wing  away  through  the 
swishing  birch  twigs  and  gives  vent  to  his 
emotions  as  he  departs.  Not  all  grouse 
squeal  when  thus  flushed,  but  they  seldom 
fail  to  utter  their  loudest  notes  when 
alighting  on  a  tree  overhead  after  being 
startled  ;  and  when  running  for  a  hiding- 
place  they  utter  a  hurried  "  quit,  quit,  quit" 
that  attracts  the  immediate  attention  of 
the  dog.  A  mother  grouse,  with  young, 
whines  precisely  like  a  dog  when  an  enemy 
is  near  her  brood. 


i92    A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore. 

At  night  the  grouse  usually  sleep  upon 
the  ground,  and  indifferently  in  the  woods 
or  out  in  the  open  clearing  if  the  weather 
is  dry.  When  it  is  rainy  they  sleep  under 
logs,  or  rocks,  or  clumps  of  conifers,  and 
frequently  a  whole  covey  will  be  found  at 
night  scattered  along  under  an  old  tumble- 
down fence  in  the  woods.  In  winter  when 
the  snow  is  deep  they  sleep  either  high  up 
in  coniferous  trees  or  under  the  snow  in 
the  open,  so  that  just  at  evening  it  is  no 
uncommon  sight  to  see  a  covey  of  grouse 
diving  from  wing,  one  after  another,  into 
the  snow.  If  the  weather  is  very  boister- 
ous and  the  birds  happen  to  dive  down  to 
a  patch  of  wintergreens  or  clover  or  young 
winter  wheat  they  may  remain  under  the 
snow  for  several  days,  burrowing  for  short 
distances  and  eating  the  green  leaves  that 
are  thus  found.  When  a  grouse  is  sitting 
quietly  at  no  great  depth  beneath  the  snow, 
a  little  hole  about  as  large  as  one's  finger 
is  kept  open  by  the  bird's  breath,  and  the 
moisture  congealing  in  large  flakes  upon 
the  frosty  twigs  or  grass  just  over  the  hole 
will  easily  locate  the  bird  for  a  good  ob- 


A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore.    193 

server ;  and  the  grouse  in  such  a  position 
will  allow  one  to  approach  quite  near 
before  he  leaves  his  comfortable  room 
beneath  the  winds. 

The  snow  is  sometimes  too  hard  to  serve 
for  house  purposes,  and  then  the  birds 
may  not  alight  upon  the  ground  for  many 
days  at  a  time,  but  fly  from  the  hiding  tops 
of  evergreens  to  the  trees  in  which  they 
bud  at  morning  and  at  evening.  On  the 
first  warm  day  though,  when  the  sun  has 
softened  the  snow,  the  boy  who  is  follow- 
ing a  rabbit  in  the  warm  corner  of  the 
thicket  will  suddenly  come  upon  the  neat- 
est, the  trimmest  and  the  most  inspiring 
bird  track  that  is  ever  imprinted  in  any 
woods  on  the  pure  white  surface  of  this 
good  earth  of  ours.  Three  evenly  spread 
toemarks  in  front  and  one  short  straight 
mark  behind.  One  footmark  just  as  far 
in  advance  of  the  previous  one  as  that  is 
ahead  of  the  one  before  it,  and  all  in  defi- 
nite order.  Here  the  track  leads  around 
a  rock ;  there  it  goes  along  the  whole 
length  of  that  half-sunken  log  and  then 
straight  out  through  the  sheep  path  among 


194    A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore. 

the  hazels.  No  slipshod  stepper  ever  made 
such  marks.  So  clear,  so  well  defined,  so 
mathematical  a  track  is  indicative  only  of 
such  character  as  belongs  to  the  noblest 
of  all  game  birds,  and  perhaps  the  boy  will 
hear  from  him  in  a  moment.  No !  there 
is  where  he  strutted ;  and  there  are  the 
concentric  segments  of  circles  made  by  the 
wing  tips  in  the  snow  as  the  wise  bird  flew, 
several  minutes  before  danger  approached. 
His  danger  was  not  so  great,  though, 
after  all,  if  I  am  familiar  with  that  boy, 
for  the  bird  that  left  was  game  for  a  man 
of  sharp  wit  and  good  judgment. 

Grouse  are  quite  apt  to  keep  each  other 
company  in  small  coveys  until  spring,  ex- 
cept when  they  are  much  disturbed,  but 
certain  very  old  birds  are  quite  content  to 
be  solitary,  and  they  are  then  difficult  to 
approach  under  ordinary  circumstances. 
A  wary  old  bird  will  slide  quietly  out  of 
the  way  as  soon  as  he  hears  the  sportsman 
approaching,  and  it  is  folly  to  attempt  to 
corner  him,  but  most  of  the  grouse  run 
and  hide  when  there  are  signs  of  danger, 
and  a  good  pointer  or  setter  will  follow 


A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore.    195 

them  easily  to  their  places  of  concealment. 
A  grouse  will  not  often  remain  before  the 
pointing  dog  for  more  than  two  or  three 
minutes,  and  then  he  bursts  forth  with  the 
startling  roar  that  reminds  one  of  the  sud- 
den dumping  of  a  coal  cart  upon  the  pave- 
ment, unnerving  the  hunter  who  is  not 
cool  and  steady  in  his  aim.  If  the  bird 
makes  a  high  flight  at  first  he  may  be  ex- 
pected to  alight  upon  the  ground  on  de- 
scending. If  he  goes  off  low  he  will 
probably  slant  upward  at  the  end  of  his 
flight  of  a  few  hundred  yards  and  alight 
in  a  tree,  barring  accidents  which  are  lia- 
ble to  happen  at  the  hands  of  the  gunners. 
Grouse  are  sometimes  caught  in  snares 
that  are  set  for  them  on  their  feeding- 
grounds,  and  hunters  who  cannot  kill  a 
flying  bird  are  not  beneath  chasing  them 
with  spaniels  which  bark  at  the  flushed 
birds  and  cause  them  to  stop,  out  of  curi- 
osity, and  alight  on  limbs  overhead  in 
order  to  watch  the  antics  of  the  dogs. 
The  hunter  can  then  approach  closely 
before  attracting  the  attention  of  the 
preoccupied  grouse.  It  is  a  very  difficult 


196   A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore. 

matter  to  see  a  grouse  that  has  alighted 
in  a  large  tree  at  the  end  of  a  deliberate 
flight,  as  he  usually  sits  bolt  upright  very 
close  to  the  trunk  and  moves  not  a  feather, 
and  unless  one  scans  every  foot  of  the 
tree  systematically  the  bird  will  probably 
not  be  discovered.  Hunters  often  declare 
that  they  have  never  been  able  to  find  a 
grouse  in  a  tree,  just  as  we  hear  young 
women  complain  that  they  cannot  discover 
a  four-leafed  clover,  and  yet  certain  eyes 
are  very  expert  at  detecting  grouse  in 
trees  and  four-leafed  clovers  in  the  green- 
sward ;  much  to  the  discomfiture  of  un- 
trained observers  who  were  not  previously 
aware  of  their  lack  of  the  requisite  power. 
Wing-shooting  is  the  most  certain  and 
the  most  satisfactory  way  of  getting  a 
good  bag  of  grouse,  and  for  this  purpose 
well  broken  pointers  or  setters  are  indis- 
pensable. Their  keen  noses  enable  them 
to  detect  the  scent  of  a  bird  that  has 
walked  along  the  ground  perhaps  half  an 
hour  previously,  and  they  follow  the  trail 
until  the  vicinity  of  the  game  is  reached. 
The  bird  being  located  in  his  hiding-place, 


A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore.    197 

the  dog  stands  silently  pointing  until  the 
hunter  has  found  a  good  place  from  which 
to  shoot  when  the  grouse  springs  out  on 
wing.  The  most  successful  shots  in  the 
brush  are  not  often  the  men  who  make 
good  scores  in  open  field  shooting,  for  in 
the  latter  sort  of  work  one  learns  to  take 
sight  along  the  barrel  of  his  gun,  and  in 
the  woods  such  sighting  is  naturally  in- 
terfered with.  The  best  grouse  hunters 
of  my  acquaintance  shoot  with  both  eyes 
open  and  head  erect,  moving  the  gun  with 
the  same  intuition  that  guides  the  bat- 
ter in  striking  a  ball  after  "suppressing 
the  image"  of  everything  except  that  of 
the  object  aimed  at.  The  image  of 
branches  and  trees  upon  the  retina  of  the 
eye  being  suppressed  at  will  by  the  hunter, 
he  is  then  conscious  only  of  the  presence 
of  the  swiftly  moving  bird,  and  this  ob- 
ject he  follows  as  accurately  with  the 
gun  as  he  would  with  his  finger  if  he  were 
pointing  out  the  bird  to  a  friend. 

Very  nice  calculations  are  required  in 
order  to  hit  the  bird,  however,  for  if  the 
gun  were  aimed  directly  at  a  crossing 


198    A  Bit  of  Grouse  Hunter's  Lore. 

grouse  at  the  instant  of  firing,  the  charge 
of  shot  would  pass  far  to  the  rear  of  the 
game.  It  is  necessary  to  know  approxi- 
mately the  length  of  time  required  for 
combustion  of  the  powder,  the  time  occu- 
pied by  the  charge  of  shot  in  reaching  any 
given  point,  and  to  judge  correctly  of  the 
distance  and  direction  of  the  angles  and 
curves  of  flight  of  the  bird.  All  of  the 
factors  excepting  the  first  vary  with  each 
fraction  of  a  second  after  the  bird  is  on 
wing,  so  it  would  seem  almost  impossible 
that  any  one  could  be  capable  of  making 
the  calculations  requisite  for  striking  a 
swift-speeding  grouse  among  the  trees 
were  it  not  for  the  aid  of  that  peculiar 
faculty  of  instinctive  co-ordination  in 
action  of  brain  and  muscle.  A  strong 
bird  is  not  easily  killed  even  when  fairly  hit, 
and  it  seemed  cruel  to  allow  a  wounded 
grouse  to  escape,  but  men  who  have  been 
struck  with  shot  testify  that  the  benumb- 
ing effect  was  such  that  they  did  not 
suffer  any  real  pain  after  the  receipt  of  the 
injury.  When  we  know  what  a  fox  or 
hawk  would  do  with  a  captured  grouse  it 
makes  the  hunter's  conscience  easy. 


TROUT  IN  A  THUNDER-STORM. 

ONE  day  in  the  summer  of  1880, 
Charley  and  I,  with  our  guide, 
Dick  Crego,  left  our  camp  on  Fourth 
Lake,  for  a  day's  trout-fishing  in  the 
south  branch  of  Moose  River.  It  was 
one  of  those  days  in  July  when  the 
dweller  in  the  city  would  ponder  over  the 
question  in  his  philosophical  mind  as 
to  whether  life  was  worth  living  or  not 
and  decide  in  the  negative,  but  in  the 
woods  the  fragrant  breaths  from  hem- 
locks and  cool  air  waves  from  the  moss- 
covered  and  ferny  ground  gave  one  an 
exhilaration  and  exuberant  delight  in  mere 
existence. 

The   day   was   not   a   perfect   one   for 
trout-fishing,    but    for   us    lovers   of    na- 
ture  the   summer   stillness   of    the   deep 
forest    possessed    such    an    enchantment 
199 


200    Trout  in  a  Thunder-Storm. 

that  the  prospect  of  a  light  creel  at 
evening  had  no  effect  on  our  spirits. 
Trout  were  abundant  anyway,  and  we 
were  catching  enough  every  day  for  camp 
use. 

As  Dick  quietly  paddled  us  near  the 
spring  holes  we  could  see  the  trout  lazily 
poising  themselves  on  their  red  and  white 
marginal  fins,  and  slightly  stirring  the 
sandy  bottom  with  slow  sweeps  of  their 
mottled  tails,  not  caring  to  exert  them- 
selves to  make  a  move  for  the  flies  which 
we  seductively  cast  near  them. 

Once  in  a  while  under  the  low  hanging 
branches  of  a  hemlock  or  bunch  of  alders 
we  would  find  a  trout  that  was  anxious  to 
have  a  pull  at  the  fly,  but  on  the  whole  we 
had  taken  very  few  up  to  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon,  when  ominous  mutterings 
began  to  be  heard  in  the  south.  Great 
thunder-heads  of  dark  cumulus  appeared 
over  the  tall  pines  and  hemlocks  and 
rapidly  rolled  toward  us.  The  forest  was 
wrapped  in  an  awful  stillness.  Not  a 
sound  could  be  heard  near  us  save  an 
occasional  muffled  murmur  of  the  water  as 


Trout  in  a  Thunder-Storm.    201 

it  whirled  in  an  eddy  under  some  fallen 
tree  trunk. 

We  had  arrived  at  the  "  big  spring  hole  " 
and  as  Dick  cautiously  sent  the  light  boat 
close  to  the  bank  Charley  and  I  stepped 
out,  and  bending  low  behind  the  bushes 
crept  to  an  open  place  where  we  could 
cast  our  flies  easily.  Charley  made  the 
first  cast.  His  flies  had  hardly  made  a 
ripple  on  the  water  when  splash  !  down 
went  his  red  ibis.  His  light  rod  bent  into 
a  half  circle,  and  as  I  cast  a  quick  glance 
at  the  spot  I  saw  half  a  dozen  trout  glid- 
ing about  near  his  hooked  one  with  the 
restless  eager  movements  which  always 
mean  hunger.  My  flies  alighted  instantly 
in  the  same  place,  and  down  went  my 
stretcher  fly  with  a  whirl.  As  that  trout 
made  a  quick  turn  I  saw  another  calmly 
fasten  himself  on  one  of  the  dropper 
flies.  We  led  our  trout  to  one  side  of 
the  pool  and  Dick  slipped  a  landing  net 
under  them  and  threw  them,  tumbling  and 
squirming,  upon  the  grass.  In  a  moment 
we  had  both  made  another  cast  and 
hooked  our  fish,  and  the  rest  of  the  trout 


202    Trout  in  a  Thunder-Storm. 

in  the  eddy  were  excited  and  angry  be- 
cause they  had  not  snatched  the  flies  first. 

Meanwhile  the  forest  had  grown  darker 
and  darker.  The  great  banks  of  inky 
black  clouds  were  low  over  our  heads. 
Quivering  flashes  of  lightning  lighted  up 
the  mountains,  and  the  heavy  thunder 
shook  the  very  ground  and  reverberated 
and  echoed. 

Cast  after  cast  we  made,  and  the  trout 
seemed  invigorated  by  the  rigor  of  the 
elements.  Big  lusty  fellows  made  the 
spray  fly  as  they  plunged  after  our  flies 
with  might  and  main.  Some  in  their 
eagerness  dashed  clear  over  the  flies  and 
turned  double  somersaults  in  the  air.  At 
almost  every  cast  a  trout  was  hooked,  and 
a  sight  of  our  bent  rods  and  whirring  reels 
would  have  made  the  Sphinx  arise  and 
whoop  for  joy  just  for  once. 

A  gale  rushed  through  the  tops  of  the 
pines,  and  as  they  bent  before  the  blast 
and  the  wind  soughed  through  their 
branches  the  big  drops  began  to  fall. 
Still  we  fished  until  Dick  fairly  dragged 
us  to  the  boat,  which  he  had  pulled  up  on 


Trout  in  a  Thunder-Storm.    203 

the  bank  and  turned  over.  Under  the 
boat  we  crawled,  and  the  trout  flapped 
about  in  the  wet  grass  near  us,  while 
lightning  flashed  and  thunder  roared. 
Who  says  that  trout  will  not  bite  in  a 
thunder-storm  ? 


COOT  SHOOTING  IN  NEW 
ENGLAND. 

NEW  YORK,  Oct.  12. 

IN  a  recent  number of  Forest  and Stream 
"  M.  H.  Able  "  asks  if  the  "  coots  " 
which  the  Eastern  gunners  works  so  hard 
to  get  are  the  same  as  the  mud-hens  of 
the  Western  States.  One  day's  shooting 
in  line  would  convince  our  friend  that  he 
was  not  shooting  mud-hens,  but  that  big, 
sturdy  sea-ducks,  worthy  of  his  lead,  were 
carrying  off  ounces  of  his  Number  4 
shot.  The  ducks  which  are  called  coots 
along  the  coast  consist  of  three  or  four 
species.  The  male  surf-ducks  are  called 
skunkhead  coots,  and  their  wives  and 
yearlings  gray  coots.  The  velvet  scoter  is 
known  as  the  white-winged  coot,  and  the 
American  scoter  is  the  butter-billed  coot. 
The  eiders,  also,  are  dragged  into  the 
204 


Coot  Shooting  in  New  England.  205 

"genus  coot."  In  no  sort  of  shooting  do 
hunters  ever  get  aroused  to  so  high  a 
pitch  of  excitement  as  while  gunning 
for  these  heavy  sea-ducks.  The  birds  are 
abundant  and  are  constantly  on  the  move 
from  one  feeding-ground  to  another.  The 
fresh  ocean  breezes  key  the  hunters  up  to 
the  last  degree  of  manly  vigor,  and  as  the 
light  boats  ride  the  long  swells  as  grace- 
fully as  a  swallow  floats  through  the  air, 
the  boom  and  roar  of  the  surf  among  the 
rocks  on  the  shore  inspires  the  gunners 
with  its  freedom.  The  boats  are  swing- 
ing on  their  long  anchor-lines  twenty  rods 
apart ;  the  ducks  are  flying  swiftly  through 
between  the  boats,  and  every  moment  the 
heavy  ten-bores  are  ringing  out  loud  and 
clear,  and  the  puffs  of  thick  smoke  are 
borne  rapidly  away  on  the  breeze.  Here 
a  white-wing,  the  leader  of  the  flock,  struck 
with  the  Number  43,  halts  and  falters  and 
plunges  headlong  into  the  waves  ;  there  a 
skunkhead,  proud  in  his  speed,  wilts  sud- 
denly high  in  the  air — down,  down,  down 
he  comes,  and  the  spray  flies  in  every 
direction  as  he  surges  heavily  into  the 


so6  Coot  Shooting  in  New  England. 

water,  while  a  few  feathers  float  back  on 
the  breeze.  Men  are  shouting,  ten-bores 
booming ;  wings  are  whistling,  feathers 
flying ;  coots  are  splashing,  bounding, 
diving — while  the  rush  and  the  roar  of 
the  breakers  in  the  rocks  keep  time  to 
the  riding  of  the  boats. 


RUFFED  GROUSE  AMONG  THE 
GRAPE-VINES. 

SAM  and  I  had  been  hunting  ruffed 
grouse  every  day  for  a  week,  and 
Sunday  had  finally  brought  us  to  a  halt  to 
rest  for  the  week  ahead.  It  was  a  glori- 
ous Sabbath  in  a  little  quaint  village  in 
Wayne  County,  Pa.  We  sat  on  the  stone 
slab  at  the  kitchen  door  of  the  old  farm- 
house, and  smoked  our  pipes  in  content- 
ment, watching  the  yellow  leaves  as  they 
lazily  zig-zagged  down  to  the  ground  from 
the  limbs  of  the  half  bare  maples,  and  the 
antiopa  butterflies  slowy  flitting  from  one 
decayed  apple  to  another  under  the  trees 
in  the  orchard  close  by.  A  blue  dove 
on  the  eaves  of  the  barn  cooed  occasion- 
ally in  a  quiet,  Sunday  way  as  he  basked 
in  the  November  sunshine,  and  the  hens 
were  dozing  in  the  holes  where  they  had 
207 


208  Ruffed  Grouse. 

been  dusting  themselves  an  hour  before, 
in  front  of  the  barn  door.  Belle  and  Carrie 
were  curled  up  in  the  grass  near  us, 
dreaming  of  grouse  that  never  flushed 
wild  ;  and  everything  was  still.  The 
sound  of  the  church-bell  down  in  the  vil- 
lage seemed  mellowed  as  though  in  har- 
mony with  the  color  of  the  beech  and 
maple  woods  through  which  its  vibrations 
reached  us. 

"  Sam  !  "  said  I,  "  those  grouse  down 
by  the  rock  cut  will  be  in  the  frost  grapes 
this  morning,  and  I  'm  going  down  across 
the  lot  to  see  if  I  can  get  near  them. 
Don't  let  the  dogs  follow  me." 

The  dry  leaves,  a  foot  deep,  along  the 
fence  by  the  grape-vines  seemed  to  rustle 
louder  than  they  ever  did  before,  as  I 
cautiously  climbed  over  the  rails,  but  no 
grouse  was  near  to  be  frightened,  and 
although  expecting  the  sudden  dash  and 
whirr  every  moment,  I  got  near  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  little  patch  of  vines 
without  starting  a  bird,  and  sitting  down 
in  the  leaves  with  my  back  against  a 
mossy  boulder,  tried  to  fit  it  well,  and 


Ruffed  Grouse.  209 

waited.  In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a 
pattering  of  very  light  footsteps  in  the 
leaves  back  of  me.  Nearer  and  nearer 
they  came,  stopping  for  a  second  and  then 
proceeding  again,  coming  my  way  all  of 
the  while.  Suddenly  a  surprised  "  peet  " 
on  the  right  caused  me  to  slowly  turn  my 
eyes  in  that  direction,  and  there,  within 
six  feet,  was  a  splendid  male  grouse,  with 
crest  erect  and  tail  partially  spread,  look- 
ing curiously  at  me.  I  kept  stiller  than  any 
little  mouse,  and  the  grouse  satisfied  him- 
self that  I  was  harmless.  He  came  a  few 
steps  nearer,  clucking  all  of  the  while,  and 
mounting  a  stone,  spread  his  tail  to  its 
fullest  extent,  and  with  crest  and  tail  erect, 
with  ruff  displayed,  and  with  wings  droop- 
ing to  his  feet,  he  turned  two  or  three 
times  around,  like  a  turkey  gobbler. 
Then  composing  himself  again  he  took 
another  good  look  and  walked  around  in 
front. 

At  that  moment  another  grouse,  a 
younger  one,  had  come  around  the  rock 
by  which  I  was  sitting,  and  he  too  went 
through  the  same  performance,  but  not  in 


210  Ruffed  Grouse. 

such  fine  style.  Both  birds  then  walked 
on  a  way,  watching  me  all  of  the  while, 
and  soon  four  more  grouse  came  in  sight. 
They  walked  within  three  rods,  but  paid 
me  no  attention,  and  busied  themselves 
picking  up  fallen  frost  grapes.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  rush  overhead  and  a  grouse 
alighted  in  the  vines  just  above  me  and 
commenced  picking  at  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
his  smooth  plumage  with  the  dark  mark- 
ings on  the  sides  seeming  more  beautiful 
than  anything  I  had  ever  seen.  Once  in 
a  while  he  looked  down  at  me  over  his 
shoulder,  erected  his  crest,  and  gave  an 
interested  "  peet,  peet,"  and  then  went  on 
picking  grapes  again. 

In  a  short  time  eleven  grouse  were  in 
sight,  moving  about  as  gracefully  as  could 
be,  putting  their  little  feet  lightly  down 
on  the  dead  leaves,  and  all  engaged  in 
hunting  for  food.  One  of  them  flew  up 
to  the  one  already  in  the  vines,  and  then 
nearly  all  followed,  and  commenced  pick- 
ing the  grapes  that  hung  in  scattered 
clusters. 

All  of  this  while  I  had  remained  perfectly 


Ruffed  Grouse.  211 

quiet,  but  my  position  was  fast  becoming 
uncomfortable.  An  edge  of  rock  was  boring 
into  the  middle  of  my  back  ;  another  sharp 
piece  had  done  its  level  best  to  penetrate 
the  back  of  my  head,  and  a  jagged  stump 
had  worked  just  as  far  into  my  leg  as  it 
could  possibly  get,  so  that  I  had  to  move. 
The  grouse  all  seemed  alarmed  at  the 
sight.  They  sat  straight  and  motionless 
among  the  vines,  but  none  flew.  For 
several  minutes  they  remained  in  this 
position,  and  knowing  that  I  was  discov- 
ered I  arose,  expecting  to  see  all  of  them 
dart  off  at  once.  This  they  did  not  do, 
however,  but  started  slowly  one  at  a  time, 
and  sailed  off  only  a  few  rods  into  the 
woods. 


WING  SHOOTING  VERSUS 
GROUND  SHOOTING. 

NEW  YORK,  Jan.  2ist. 

Editor  Forest  and  Stream : 

This  controversy  as  to  whether  it  is 
proper  to  shoot  a  sitting  grouse  or  not 
will  probably  never  be  brought  to  an  end. 
I  am  acquainted  with  a  great  many  men 
who  would  scorn  to  shoot  a  quail  or 
woodcock,  if  the  bird  was  not  upon  the 
wing ;  but  who  would  not  hesitate  to 
shoot  a  grouse  upon  the  ground.  On  the 
the  other  hand,  I  know  sportsmen  to 
whom  a  grouse  so  killed  would  be  an 
albatross  about  the  neck. 

A  certain  number  of  men  will  never 
consent  to  lose  caste  by  shooting  any 
game  bird  that  is  not  flying,  while  others 
will  allow  their  color-line  to  shade  off  into 
the  dusky  by  making  an  exception  of  the 
ruffed  grouse. 

212 


Wing  vs.  Ground  Shooting.   213 

Then  there  are  the  boys  to  be  consid- 
ered. How  well  do  I  remember  the  joy- 
ous days  of  childhood  when  most  of  my 
hours  were  spent  in  the  woods,  and  when 
the  birds,  and  animals,  and  fishes,  and 
plants  seemed  to  be  the  only  things  in  the 
whole  world  worthy  of  any  consideration. 

I  knew  just  where  to  find  the  old  par- 
tridge's nest  in  early  May  on  the  warm 
sunny  hillside  among  the  sprouts  and 
junipers.  How  often  I  have  watched  the 
mother  bird  on  her  nest ;  and  when  she 
skurried  away  I  would  stretch  myself  at 
full  length  by  her  treasures,  and  with  my 
head  between  my  little  hands  would  gaze 
eagerly  at  the  eight  or  ten  buff -colored  eggs 
and  ponder  over  their  contents,  and  think 
of  what  they  would  bring  forth.  When  my 
visits  to  the  nest  were  frequent,  I  used  to 
imagine  that  the  old  bird  grew  tamer,  and 
that  she  knew  better  than  to  be  afraid. 

After  the  little  downy  chicks  were 
hatched  I  could  always  find  the  brood.  If 
they  were  not  down  by  the  spring  brook, 
where  the  fox-grapes  and  hellebores  grew, 
they  were  up  along  the  old  fence  among 


214  Wing  vs.  Ground  Shooting. 

the  cedars  and  cat-briers,  or  they  were  in 
the  pastures  among  the  huckleberry  bushes. 
At  any  rate,  they  had  favorite  resorts,  and 
I  always  knew  where  those  resorts  were. 

When  the  autumn  days  drew  near  and 
the  birds  had  grown,  I  used  to  lug  out  the 
old  gun,  and,  while  hunting  lesser  game, 
my  heart  would  beat  fast  as  I  penetrated 
the  haunts  of  the  partridges.  The  old  gun 
was  long  and  heavy,  and  it  balanced  like 
an  armful  of  oars ;  and  I  was  too  little  and 
too  anxious  to  be  steady. 

When  after  much  patient  watching  I 
happened  to  see  one  of  my  patridges  upon 
the  ground  before  he  flew,  I  nervously  set 
the  ponderous  hammer  back,  and  poking 
the  long  barrel  through  the  tangling 
branches,  and  trembling  more  than  I 
ever  have  since  in  the  presence  of  much 
larger  game,  I  would  pull  hurriedly  on 
the  trigger. 

Why  would  n't  that  trigger  hurry  up  ? 
I  could  feel  it  pull,  and  pull,  and  pull,  and 
then  my  small  finger  would  take  a  fresh 
grip  and  draw  with  a  vengeance,  and 
through  the  smoke  from  the  explosion  I 


Wing  vs.  Ground  Shooting.    215 

could  see  the  bird  go  whirring  away  with 
no  part  of  him  blasted. 

Later  in  the  season  I  used  to  set  twitch- 
ups  for  the  rabbits,  and  steel-traps  for 
muskrats,  and  snares  for  the  partridges. 
How  anxiously  and  how  often  I  would  visit 
those  snares,  and  every  time  that  I  ap- 
proached them,  with  bated  breath  I  peered 
through  the  bushes  to  see  if  there  was 
"  one  in."  When  from  a  distance,  part  of 
the  snare  fence  could  be  seen  all  knocked 
out  of  shape  and  the  dried  leaves  scat- 
tered about  in  confusion,  I  would  eagerly 
jump  to  the  dead  partridge  that  lay  in 
their  midst,  and  pulling  from  his  neck  the 
coil  he  could  not  shuffle  off,  I  would  take 
the  bird  in  my  lap  and  stroke  his  feathers 
one  by  one,  spread  his  feet  out  in  my 
hand,  and  rub  his  soft  breast  against  my 
cheek.  It  seemed  to  be  too  good  to  be 
true  ;  life  was  overflowing  with  happiness. 
The  robins  and  red  squirrels  and  other 
standard  boys'  game  would  fade  into  in- 
significance for  the  time  being,  and  the 
partridge  brought  a  pleasure  keener  than 
some  mortals  seem  to  experience. 


216  Wing  vs.  Ground  Shooting. 

But  years  have  rolled  by,  and  the  snare 
and  the  old  single-barrel  are  things  of  the 
past.  I  have  owned  many  a  fine  gun  and 
hunted  many  a  fine  setter  or  pointer  in  far 
distant  States  and  countries,  and  the  days 
spent  in  the  woods  with  dog  and  gun  are 
enjoyed  even  now  with  a  boyish  enthu- 
siasm. It  is  many  years  since  I  have  shot 
at  a  sitting  game-bird,  and  it  will  be  a 
great  many  more  before  I  do  it  again. 
There  is  a  grand  feeling  of  pride  in  being 
able  to  kill  the  "  hurtling  grouse  "  as  he 
dashes  forth  from  the  brush  in  front  of 
the  well-trained  setter ;  and  a  pleasure 
that  would  be  marred  by  the  presence  of 
a  murdered  bird  in  the  game-pocket. 

Some  of  your  correspondents  are  skep- 
tical about  the  existence  of  sportsmen  who 
delight  in  having  a  ruffed  grouse  do  his 
very  worst  when  he  bursts  away  through 
the  thicket,  but  your  humble  servant  is 
one  of  the  number  who  does  enjoy  such 
shooting  the  best.  A  few  of  my  friends 
will  tell  you  that  I  am  a  good  shot,  but  the 
aforesaid  friends  are  kindly  persons  who 
only  look  at  the  bag  of  birds  after  a  day's 


Wing  vs.  Ground  Shooting.    217 

shooting,  and  do  not  count  the  empty 
shells.  There  is  an  interesting  story  in 
many  of  these  empty  shells,  and  I  would 
prefer  that  it  remain  untold. 

In  your  last  issue  "  Octo  "  says  that  in 
fifty-four  flying  shots  at  grouse  he  has  killed 
sixteen  birds.  I  have  counted  shells  often 
enough  to  know  what  that  means.  There 
have  been  days  when  eight  or  ten  empty 
shells  represented  as  many  ruffed  grouse 
in  my  bag ;  and  there  have  been  other 
days  when  the  same  number  of  shells 
would  indicate  only  a  bird  still  in  the  fu- 
ture. I  can  show  you  men,  though,  who 
can  and  do  average  one  bird  to  every  two 
shots,  but  they  are  market  shooters,  who 
pick  out  only  the  fairest  chances,  and 
thereby  save  an  amunition  bill.  "  Octo  " 
probably  shoots  at  all  of  the  birds  that 
rise  within  range,  and  so  do  I,  and  ten  to 
one  we  have  the  most  fun.  "  Octo,"  I  'm 
sorry  that  you  killed  those  two  sitting 
birds.  If  you  can  keep  up  your  average 
on  wing  shots,  come  over  to  our  side  of 
the  fence,  and  your  virtue  will  be  its  own 
reward. 


MY  WHITE  VIOLET. 

LITTLE  white  violet  you  are  my  love, 
Nestling  so  modestly  down  in  the  moss. 
Shyly  you  hide  from  the  bold  sun  above, 
Humble  the  home  that  the  oak  shadows  cross, 
Yet  't  is  the  one  of  your  choice,  dainty  love. 

Pretty  white  violet  you  are  my  own, 

Here  on  the  leaves  I  will  lie  by  your  side. 

Happy  am  I  at  not  being  alone, 

Never  a  feeling  or  mood  need  I  hide 

When  I  am  with  you,  my  pure  one,  my  own. 

Honest  white  violet  you'll  not  deceive, 
Nor  do  I  ask  you  to  give  love  for  mine. 

Comfort  enough  't  is  for  me  to  believe, 
Pleasure  to  feel  that  you  cannot  design, 

Then  when  I  love  you,  you  will  not  deceive. 


218 


AN  EASTER  CROCUS. 

I    WATCHED  a  budding  crocus 
As  it  rose  to  meet  the  light, 
From  a  slumber  'neath  the  snowbanks 
Through  the  dreary  winter  night, 
And  it  seemed  too  bright  and  lovely 
For  a  thing  with  roots  in  dirt. 

Came  a  whisper  from  Ostara  : 

Stored-up  forces  from  the  sun 
Sprang  from  out  that  bulb  all  potent — 

And  its  mission  was  begun. 
For  it  pleased  men  with  true  beauty, 
Though  the  roots  were  deep  in  dirt. 

Then  I  thought  of  Easter  morning, 

When  a  man  divine  arose, 
Calling  forth  a  power  eternal 

For  believers  ;  to  disclose 
All  the  sin  and  human  folly 
That  we  slumber  in,  as  dirt. 

And  to-day  from  all  that  's  worldly 

May  fine  character  arise 
Out  of  envies,  lies,  injustice. 

There  's  to  us  a  glad  surprise 
That  such  thing  can  spring  from  forces 
Hidden  in  the  midst  of  dirt. 
219 


THE  EMPTY  KENNEL. 

ON  the  kennel  floor  the  chain  lies 
Where  it  lay  a  year  ago 
Rusty,  knotted,  wound  in  cobweb, 
Where  cold  spiders  hide  below. 
Creaking  on  its  unused  hinges 

Swings  the  loose  door  to  and  fro, 
And  the  kennel  straw  is  mildewed 
Dampened  by  the  sifting  snow. 

Now  there  is  no  dog  to  care  for, 

Silence  only  when  I  call, 
But  I  must  call :  Grouse  !    My  beauty  ! 

Hark  !    A  moan  behind  the  wall. 
Listen  !  was  that  not  his  voice  then  ? 

Moans  the  wind  there — that  is  all. 
Sighs  the  wind  about  the  kennel          '  • 

While  the  rustling  dead  leaves  fall. 

When  the  autumn  leaves  were  falling, 

Just  one  year  ago  to-day, 
Grouse,  the  noblest  of  the  setters, 

Listened  in  the  morning's  gray 

220 


The  Empty  Kennel.          221 

Till  he  heard  my  footsteps  coming. 

Leaping  sprang  at  me  in  play. 
Shook  his  sides  and  barked  so  gladly, 

Said  to  me  all  he  could  say. 

And  he  told  me  that  he  loved  me, 

Said  he  wanted  to  obey, 
Said  he  knew  just  where  a  partridge 

Hidden  'neath  the  windfall  lay. 
There  he  pointed,  staunch  as  granite, 

While  the  bold  bird  dared  to  stay  : 
Brought  the  shot  bird  back  so  proudly, 

Asked  if  that  was  not  the  way. 

Then  I  praised  the  dear  old  setter, 

Looked  down  at  his  earnest  eyes, 
'Til  we  felt  like  two  good  fellows, 

Bound  by  all  the  hunter's  ties. 
And  I  said  to  him  :  now  Grousie, 

Many  a  year  before  us  lies, 
Many  a  day  we  '11  hunt  together 

Ere  the  soul  of  either  flies. 

So  we  ranged  along  together, 

Over  meadow,  ridge  and  swale  ; 
In  the  swamp  the  twittering  woodcock 

In  the  brush  the  calling  quail, 
Found  their  hiding  spots  discovered, 

Found  their  tricks  of  no  avail. 
All  in  vain  the  running  partridge 

Tried  to  throw  us  off  his  trail. 


222         The  Empty  Kennel. 

When  at  noon  we  stopped  a  moment, 

At  the  spring  beneath  the  pine, 
If  he  put  his  nose  in  first  there, 

His  was  just  as  good  as  mine. 
For  we  shared  nice  things  together, 

On  the  moss  we  'd  drink  and  dine. 
Side  by  side  our  single  shadow 

Made  a  pretty  friendship  sign. 

Late  that  day  the  slanting  sunbeams 

Reddened  all  the  rocky  hill, 
With  a  strange  unnatural  lighting, 

Colors  boding  something  ill. 
Through  the  forest  sped  a  rabbit, 

Tempting  me  to  try  my  skill, 
'T  was  no  rabbit,  but  a  spirit, 

Some  foul  thing  I  could  not  kill. 

Soon  its  evil  work  was  ended. 

Grouse  came  slowly  back  to  me, 
Looked  up  at  me,  asked  a  question, 

Laid  his  head  against  my  knee. 
On  his  neck  there  was  a  blood  stain, 

But  no  mortal  eye  could  see 
What  the  wound  was — how  it  came  there, 

Boy  !  asked  I,  what  can  this  be  ? 

What  is  this  my  bonnie  setter  ? 

Why  do  you  my  presence  seek  ? 
'T  is  not  true  that  I  have  harmed  you, 

Oh  !  if  you  could  only  speak. 


The  Empty  Kennel.          223 

Tell  me  if  you  think  I  meant  it, 

Tell  me  not  in  manner  meek, 
Hurt  me  not  with  your  forgiveness, 

But  on  me  quick  vengeance  wreak. 

Said  he  :  "  Master  if  you  did  it, 

Then  I  know  it  must  be  right, 
I  have  been  a  true  companion, 

Worked  and  loved  with  all  my  might. 
If  from  you  I  should  receive  this, 

Then  my  dying  pains  are  light ; 
If  my  day  has  brought  you  pleasure, 

Gladly  pass  I  into  night." 

Tenderly  I  laid  him  out  then 

On  a  golden  wood-brake  sheaf, 
Made  for  him  a  brilliant  covering 

Of  the  sumac's  scarlet  leaf. 
Sadly  left  him  with  the  Dryads, 

Asked  of  them  to  share  my  grief : 
Faithful  friend  of  man — the  setter, 

Dead — with  friend  of  nymph — the  leaf. 

On  the  kennel  floor  the  chain  lies 

Where  it  lay  a  year  ago  ; 
Rusty,  knotted,  wound  in  cobweb, 

Where  cold  spiders  hide  below. 
Creaking  on  its  unused  hinges, 

Swings  the  loose  door  to  and  fro, 
And  the  kennel  straw  is  mildewed 

Dampened  by  the  sifting  snow. 


THE  OLD-SQUAW. 

ALL  the  coast  in  white  is  covered 
Dark-limbed  pines  snow  burdens  bear 
Sea  rocks  growing  thick  with  fucus 
Hide  beneath  an  icy  glare  ! 

Out  beyond,  the  waves  are  surging, 

Darkly,  slowly,  changing  form 
While  the  sea-breeze  lulled  and  quiet 

Waits  the  coming  of  the  storm. 

See  the  snow-flakes  light  descending, 

Floating  down  from  leaden  sky. 
Listen  !  o'er  the  waves  a  sound  comes, 

Ah-ar-luk,  the  old-squaw's  cry. 

Low  and  mellow  comes  an  answer 

From  the  flock  out  in  the  bay, 
And  the  swift  bird  hears  the  greeting, 

Turns  and  throws  aloft  the  spray. 

Warm  his  feathers,  cheery-hearted, 

What  cares  he  for  wintry  cold  ? 
Gay  companion  always  welcomed, 

Feelings  all  in  singing  told. 
224 


The  Old-Squaw. 

Ah-ar-luk,  as  snow  is  falling, 
Clearly  rings  o'er  all  the  bay  ; 

And  the  voices,  floating  shoreward 
Chant  their  love  for  such  a  day. 


225 


WHAT  I  FOUND  IN  THE  HUNT- 
ING-COAT POCKET. 

IN  my  house  there  's  a  half-hidden  closet 
Just  under  the  stairs  to  the  loft, 
And  cobwebs  are  safe  in  its  corners, 
For  none  of  the  hands  that  are  soft 
Ever  dare  touch  the  latch  that  will  open 

To  cartridge  belts,  shotguns,  and  dangers. 
But  old  Don  and  I  have  a  feeling 

Of  pity  for  all  the  poor  strangers 
To  things  that  are  hung  on  those  walls. 

There  's  a  pair  of  big  boots  in  one  corner, 

And  snipe  decoys,  rods  and  a  float ; 
But  dearest  of  all  the  odd  things  there, 

To  me,  is  the  soiled  canvas  coat. 
And  to-day  in  the  hunting-coat  pocket 

I  find  a  dry,  shrivelled-up  leaf, 
A  feather  that  once  was  a  woodcock's, 

And  one  little  twig,  come  to  grief. 
There  's  some  rabbit  hair  too,  and  loose  grass-seed. 

How  quickly  for  alders  of  autumn 

My  thoughts  leave  this  hot  summer  day, 

For  frost-covered  corn-shocks  and  stubble, 
And  windrows  of  brown  leaves — and  gay, 
226 


The  Hunting-Coat  Pocket.    227 

That  rustle  to  partridge  and  hunter. 

The  black  duck  springs  quacking  from  sedges 
That  shelter  the  muskrat  and  mink, 

And  visions  of  rough,  craggy  ledges 
Are  all  in  plain  view  in  my  closet. 

The  freedom  that  makes  a  man  noble 

And  draws  him  from  sordid  desires 
Has  come  to  me  here  for  a  moment, 

And  stays  while  a  wood-sprite  inquires 
If  the  seeker  for  fame  and  a  fortune 

Who  wrecks  both  his  body  and  mind, 
Ever  gains  at  the  end  of  the  struggle 

A  treasure  as  rich  as  I  find 
In  the  twig,  and  the  leaf,  and  the  feather. 


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